


Chaos With Better Lighting

by Lies_Unfurl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:56:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 59,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean Winchester were separated after their father's execution and raised as the heirs to Hell and Heaven respectively. According to prophecy, they one day have to duel to the death because… well, because of reasons. It isn't a very clear prophecy. Meanwhile, Castiel, lowest-ranking prince in all of Heaven, has just learned that he is to marry Lord Dick Roman.</p><p>No one is particularly happy about any of this.</p><p>Things change when they all end up at Singer's Salvage School. Sam and Dean are reunited; Dean and Castiel are roommates who want more. And as their friendships grow, hanging between them like a perfect ray of sunshine (or possibly a deadly bolt of lightning) is the possibility of maybe being able to run away, and gain the freedom that they all covet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaos With Better Lighting

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the SPNJ2_BB at livejournal. Please go to http://lies-unfurl.livejournal.com/18913.html for additional notes and links to the artist's website.

 

 

Bobby Singer takes one swig from his flask, and then another. And a third. There are three letters on his desk. Two bear the cross-and-halo insignia of Heaven, and one has Hell's trident stamped in the red wax holding its envelope shut.

He knows where at least two of the three came from, or at least, he can put in a damn good guess. The enrollment period at Singer's Salvage School is almost over, and these boys, they're getting old. Sam's not too far gone at sixteen, but Dean's twenty, and nearing the max age for him to attend. And Bobby's not so naïve to think that he'll get one Winchester without the other.

He reaches for the smaller of the two Heaven-sent envelopes first. The letter inside is written in some scribe's perfect calligraphy, dark ink that flows across the paper in pretty shapes that barely resemble letters. He scowls at it as he puts on his glasses.

A quick scan over the page reveals that it's from Lord Zachariah of Heaven's Fourth Providence. One of the cousins of the fabled High King, Bobby thinks. Or something like that. The lineage up in Heaven is all tangled up; it's impossible to get a straight answer from those people.

It's not much, nothing out of the ordinary. Low-ranking Prince of Heaven, set to be married off to — _Dick Roman_? Bobby grimaces. Poor kid. But the letter describes him as being polite, obedient, and studious. Doesn't sound like he'll be too much of a problem. He sets that letter aside; he'll have a bird sent out with his acceptance later.

Then he picks up his flask and takes another sip, grimacing. He regards the remaining two letters that lie in front of him. _Pick your poison_.

Bobby decides to go with Heaven's first. The leader to the south is bad, but Bobby finds that Michael is far more _pompous_. He'd rather get that over with before going to Lucifer. The Lord of Hell at least knows that he's an asswad.

_To the Esteemed Robert Singer, Dean of Singer's Salvage School for the Education of Young Men,_

_I write to you to request admission for the Heir to the Throne of Heaven and current ward—_

"You stole him, you asshole," Bobby growls. He remembers that very clearly: John being arrested for killing the bastard magician who burned down his castle and his wife with it. His two sons disappearing in the chaos, and then, a week later: news leaking from Heaven that the children from Azazel's Prophecy had been found, and were being trained for their final battle in their respective kingdoms.

Their names, Dean and Sam, hadn't made their way down to the people for another few months, but Bobby had known from the start. The dicks to the north and to the south of earth had stolen his best friend's children because of some prophecy made by a madman.

He shakes his head and reads on. The past is the past. He needs to see about the present.

_\--Dean Winchester. At twenty years of age, I predict that will soon have cause to take the throne—_

"Kill his brother? I don't know what you're betting on, Michael, but it ain't gonna happen." Because that's what the prophecy's all about, isn't it? One brother will slay the other, take the reins, all that crap? Something to do with taking over Hell, Earth and Heaven; Bobby doesn't know. He's read that prophecy over a million and one times, and it doesn't make sense to him, or to Rufus, or Caleb, or anyone else that he's ever asked.

Still, he reads on. As predicted, Michael's letter is two pages long extolling how virtuous Dean is: how skilled at swordplay, how talented at negotiating. How his personality truly charms everyone that he meets.

Bobby hasn't seen the kid since he was eight. He supposes that it's possible that Dean really has changed that much. But for some reason, he thinks that most of what Michael wrote is total bullshit.

When he's done, he tosses the letter back down on top of the other one from Heaven, and then reaches to the Hell-sent one. It smells vaguely of sulfur as he picks it up, and he wrinkles his nose. Singer's Salvage School is dedicated to providing education for all the highborn sons from all the kingdoms; that's the way that it has been for centuries. Since long before Lucifer had his little hissy fit and ran away from Heaven, fled through Earth, and then united all of Hell's loosely-knit kingdoms under his banner.

Lucifer is a conniving, power-hungry maniac, Bobby knows that. But he's not nearly as verbose at Michael. His letter is short and to the point:

_To Robert Singer:_

_Admission is requested for Sam Winchester, Prince of Hell and soon-to-be Ruler of All, to Singer's Salvage School. The Prince is 16, and would make a decent enough addition to your crop. Tuition will be paid in full._

_Signed,_

_Lucifer Morningstar, High Ruler of All Hell_

Bobby wonders what Sam is like. He was only four when his daddy died. It's been over a decade since he's been with his brother, and Bobby knows how impressionable kids can be. For all he knows, Lucifer could've molded him into a mini version of himself.

But it's not like he's going to reject Sam. Singer's accepts all the up-there boys. The letters are only a formality, really.

Bobby sighs and rubs at his eyes. So he's got one prince who's set to marry a lord of Purgatory who's renowned for being a giant dick. He's got one prince raised in Heaven by the most arrogant ass Bobby's ever known (and he's known a _lot_ of asses). And finally, there's one boy who may or may not have been brainwashed by Hell's leader. Oh, and the latter two are brothers who are prophesied to fight to the death. Throw in a dozen other students all with their own issues for fluff—it's going to be an interesting year.

Bobby reaches down and takes another drink. Then he reaches for three sheets of parchment and readies up his wrists. He's got some acceptance letters to write.

  
  


"I’m getting married,” Castiel says flatly, “to Dick Roman. Of Leviatha.”

“That’s correct. Although Richard's his preferred name.” Zachariah cocks his mostly-bald head. The sunlight reflects off of it, making it glow like it’s backed by a halo. Devil horns would be more accurately, Castiel thinks sourly. And also, why in the name of all that is holy did Zachariah think that breaking the news to him while he was outside with his falcon was a good idea? Wasn’t it considered proper to do that sort of thing inside the castle, where everything is all stiff and formal and life-ruining proclamations are made on a daily basis? “Is there something that you don’t understand, Prince Castiel?”

“Yes.” He glares at Lord Zachariah, who, by virtue of being older, is technically higher-up than him, and also owner of the manor at which Castiel was raised. “You can start with why I’m marrying _Dick Roman_.”

“Your brother was aware of your…deviant sexual preferences. He decided to respect them—”

“This isn’t about _that_ ,” Castiel snaps, cheeks coloring. Damn the High Prince Michael and his stupid ability to know everything about a person. “Zachariah, I’m politically insignificant. I’ve only met Michael a handful of times; I've never even met his heir.” The High King, prior to his mysterious disappearance, had distributed all of his sons and daughters (and there were a _lot_ ; say what you would about his ruling abilities, but that man could get around) to be raised by servants in the manors of the assorted lords of Heaven's providences. Zachariah was one of those (actually, Castiel thinks that there's some sort of distant relation, but it's hard to tell. For all he knows, Zachariah is actually his brother or something). “And I’m hardly the princely type, anyway. I don’t even know what I would _do_ if I was to be married to Dick.”

“You’re not ‘politically insignificant.’ You’re one of the High King’s sons, kiddo. As for the princely thing? That’s my next bit of news.” He smirks, clearly savoring the anticipation of dropping this new and wonderful surprise. For one entirely inappropriate moment, Castiel dearly wishes that his head would catch on fire. “We’re sending you to finishing school.”

“Finishing school.” He stares at Zachariah for a moment. The smug bastard (and it goes against all of Castiel's upbringing to think of him like that, but there's no other possible term) just grins. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am. You start next week for this year's term at Singer's Salvage School for Young Men.”

Castiel shakes his head, and tries to imagine that he's just having some sort of weird, bad dream. He's just out practicing with Grace. Any moment now his decades-older relative/brother/whatever is just going to leave, go back to ignoring him unless he needs to order him around. The way things usually are.

"Castiel," Zachariah says firmly, "I hope you're not thinking of rebelling. Michael wouldn't like that. He's giving you a very good opportunity. Interkingdom travel! The opportunity to marry up someone who isn't so far down the throne list that there are _women_ before you."

Cas ignores the not-so-subtly sexist comment (he's used to them. Zachariah is rather insensitive about everything in existence; asking him to be decent would be like asking Balthazar the stable boy to _not_ be promiscuous). And he doesn't put much weight on the whole "rebellion" thing: Zachariah knows that to go against Michael's wishes directly violates everything that Castiel has been brought up to do. Even this, this anger that smolders within him like the glare from an irate cat is against everything he has been taught to believe in, and makes him feel rather uncomfortable.

Still, he presses the issue just a bit further. Talking to Zach is decidedly _not_ the same thing as fighting against the High Prince, and the tiny bit of fury inside of him will be easily suppressed when he goes to his rooms and thinks about obedience. He does that a lot; the concept of total obedience is engrained rather deeply in his mind. Even this minor disagreement feels about as taboo as dancing around naked in the gardens at dawn. "But I don't want to marry him. Pardon me for my naiveté, but I was hoping that I could actually have a relationship with the man I married before we tied the knot."

"You're a prince, Castiel. You don't _get_ romance; that's the bane of the commoners and the poets."

Before he can respond to _that_ amazing bit of wit and wisdom, his falcon is swoops down and lands on his hastily outstretched wrist. Grace glaring at him with no little amount of annoyance. She dislikes it when he gets distracted on the hunt.

"You'll have to leave _her_ behind, of course," says Zachariah, pressing his lips together and raising his eyebrows. He's never been fond of Castiel's bird. "No pets allowed."

"Do I have a say in any of this?" Castiel asks through gritted teeth. Grace dances on his leather glove, sensing his distress. She's always been very sensitive, like an extension of Castiel himself, and leaving her behind will be a bit like tearing out his soul. "Because if I do, then I can promise you that I _don't_ want this. Any of it."

"Nope. No choice." Zach grins, like he takes pleasure in stripping away Castiel's autonomy — and okay, he probably does. "Get your affairs in order, kiddo. You're leaving in the morning."

"Finishing school." Dean raises his eyebrow, not entirely sure how he's supposed to respond. Probably excitement, judging by how Michael is looking at him, but the dick should know by now that he doesn't _do_ enthusiasm. After all, it's been a good twelve years since he snatched him up after his mother's death. "You're sending me to finishing school."

"Heaven knows you need it," Michael mutters, deflating at his lack of excitement. "Yes. It's high time that you stop wasting your life in the stables and actually start _acting_ like a prince."

"It's high time for _you_ to start acting like you didn't fucking kidnap me, but hey, who am I to complain?" Dean rolls his eyes as he paces the throne room. The crown upon his head _itches_ , and he's really tempted to just take it off and start scratching. That's a decidedly unkingly thing to do, and he likes unkingly almost as much as Michael hates it.

He gives in to the temptation, dropping the crown down upon the gilded floors. High on his throne, Michael grits his teeth, and Dean smirks as he watches his great effort to not say anything about it. "I didn't kidnap you, and it doesn't do you well to put it so crudely," Michael says stiffly. "You were removed from a drunken father—"

"—who just happened to be lord of one of Earth's providences—"

"—who just happened to rule over a failing land in a lowly kingdom, in order to fulfill a prophecy. You know that, Dean." He sits up straight. Bright golden sunlight streams through the windows that wrap up high around the throne room. Most of them utilize the lovely method of stained glass to tell of the legendary exploits of Michael's father. The so-called God, who disappeared when Michael was seventeen, and Dean four.

That, incidentally, was also the year that the Winchester's own castle burned down, the year that his mother was killed in that fire, and the year that his father began his vendetta against the arsonist/sorcerer responsible for the fire. It was four years before John succeeded in taking his revenge, and then was subsequently executed for it. It was four years before Dean was split up from his brother, both of them being kidnapped by two fucking _dicks_ following their father's death.

He, with all of his fan-fucking-tastic Winchester luck, was taken by Michael, eldest brother and leader of the northern kingdom of Heaven. Sammy was snatched up by Lucifer, Michael's exiled younger brother and the snakelike younger ruler of the southern Hell. His father, executed after he stabbed the prophet and alleged arsonist Azazel, had ruled Winchester, one of the small kingdoms that were collectively referred to as "Earth." Earth stretches on the border between Heaven and Hell, and according to everyone Dean had ever talked to, totally sucks. Dean thinks that he loves it; still considers it his home, even though he hasn't been there in twelve years. _Anywhere_ has to be better than Heaven, stuck in a land with Michael and his thousand-and-one siblings.

Now Michael is frowning at him, and, taking on a chastising tone, says, "The prophecy, Dean. Recite the prophecy."

Dean rolls his eyes, wondering why the hell fate hates him enough to make him have to deal with that. "Once upon a time, there were two little boys—"

" _Dean_." Michael's taken on his pissy tone now. "Recite. The. Prophecy."

Dean sighs again, but consents; he'd really rather get on to the whole business of how he's not going to some frigging _finishing school_ , anyway. "'There comes a time when south and north/come together as two from Earth/brothers and brothers, marked by fire/and but one will have their heart's desire.' Man, I never met Azazel, but I hope you told him that he frigging sucked at poetry."

Michael ignores his last remark. "You are, of course, one of the brothers. Samuel is the second."

"Really?" Dean splays a hand over the red tunic that he's forced to wear in Michael's presence; he far prefers the loose shirts and blue pants of the laborers down in the stables. "You can't just spring something like that on me, Mike. My poor heart can't take it."

"I have come to believe that the prophecy will soon come to pass." Michael gets up and begins to pace the length of the throne room — and it's one hell of a length; Dean imagines that they could probably hold horse races within its walls, if they were so inclined. "Soon it will be time to face your brother, and win victory for Heaven. You need to be prepared to act as my co-ruler after that. The school you're being sent to will get you ready."

"My brother's sixteen," Dean snaps. He hopes that the kidnapping dick can feel the burn of his gaze through the ugly green silk thing that he's wearing. "I'm not fighting a sixteen-year-old. And for what it's worth? Ruling Heaven isn't my 'heart's desire.' So I don't know why you're acting like it's going to go ahead and happen."

"That's not what the prophecy means," Michael retorts, turning around and facing him. His pale features are contorted into a scowl, and Dean takes some amount of satisfaction in knowing that he is indeed irritated. "Don't speak on matters upon which you have no knowledge. And I didn't say that you were to face Samuel immediately. However, I have come to think that it will be soon, and I expect you to be ready for your assent in the aftermath. Singer's Salvage School will whip you up into shape…not literally, unfortunately," he adds as an afterthought. Dean probably isn't supposed to hear it, but everything echoes in the throne room.

It isn't like Dean doesn't know how he feels or something. There's some small pleasure in knowing that Michael loathes him almost as much as he loathes Michael.

"And where is this school?" he finally asks, because Mike's looking at him with an expression that indicates that the responsibility of the conversation has clearly fallen to him. And while he'd normally just reject it and walk out in stony silence, he has to admit that some small part of him is (beneath all the hate and fury, of course) curious about the prospect of going away. Michael doesn't let him go out of the castle unsupervised (which just means that Dean has become a champion at sneaking out of his chambers, of course). Could be interesting to see Heaven in the light of day.

"Well, that's the interesting part." Michael pauses, clearly trying to build tension. It doesn't work; there's very little he can do that would make him, or what he has to say, _interesting_. "It's an interkingdom place. Its land has borders with Earth, Hell, _and_ Heaven. All the future rulers of the major kingdoms, interacting together."

There's a loudly unsaid, _so you need to scope out future competition_. Michael would never admit to his exceedingly competitive nature, or how utterly petty he actually is.

"Okay, so first of all, I'm pretty sure that Purgatory and all those weird places on the coast are kingdoms too." Michael makes a dismissive noise in his throat, which fair enough; Dean knows that it's a stupid point to argue. No one ever thinks of Leviatha or any of the other lands making up the loosely-connected place known as Purgatory-by-the-Sea. "And second, I'm not going to _be_ a ruler, so I don't see why I should go in the first place."

"Fine." Michael throws his hands up in the air. "There's no reasoning with you whatsoever, Dean. But know this…" he pauses and smirks, and suddenly Dean's tunic is clinging very tightly to his back, because he's pretty sure that whatever Mikey's about to say, it's not going to be pretty. "If you refuse to go, you'll miss out on what might you your only chance to see your brother before you have to kill him."

"Finishing school," Sam says. "You're sending me to finishing school." He studies Lucifer's gray eyes for a moment, and then throws his hands up in the air. "Why not?"

"Sam, Sam, Sam." Lucifer smirks down at him from his perch atop a giant throne carved with intricate bone designs. "I almost expected you to protest just for the sake of it."

"I'm getting away from you," Sam retorts. "What do I have to protest?" Lucifer's nickname isn't the Devil for nothing, and Sam welcomes the chance to walk away from him.

Not that Lucifer has ever laid a hand on Sam, or even really been _cruel_ to him. Sam is allowed to go wherever in Hell he wants, allowed to spend time with whoever he wants (not that there are a lot of people whose company he's clamoring for; most of them are giant sleazebags) and allowed all of the information that he wants. Lucifer's never lied to him; as manipulative as the jerk is, Sam is certain on that account.

Still, he's never quite forgiven Lucifer for kidnapping him when he was four years old. He knows that this infuriates Lucifer, who's given him virtually everything, including the prime opportunity to become co-ruler of the world, once he wins. But call Sam crazy if you will; he just has trouble forgetting the whole taking-him-from-his-bed thing. His memories of Earth are, admittedly, kind of hazy, but he's quite certain that he had a family there who loved him. Even Lucifer has never denied this.

"Ever since you became a teenager, you've hated me. Fought me every turn you can get," the Devil says mildly. He shrugs, like he's just stating a fact—which, okay, he kind of is. "I figured you'd want to stay consistent. Not that I'm complaining," he adds in something of a stage whisper. "I get away from you and your…particular sixteen-year-old nature."

"I'd rather be thought of as a hypocrite and be out of your sight," Sam returns. He crosses his arms across the baggy shirt he wears, a sign of his refusal to accept Lucifer's offer of kingship. Which is _not_ just a whiny teenager thing, thankyouverymuch. "And I've hated you since before I was a teenager."

"That really hurts my feelings." Lucifer touches his heart and swoons back in the chair; Sam rolls his eyes at the melodramatic display. Lucifer is such an ass. Sam doesn't blame his mysterious Father for casting him out of Heaven. He probably did it just to get a moment's worth of peace and quiet. "Aren't you curious about the school?"

"Not really." Yes. Sam begins to pace through the throne room, an unattractive chamber with walls made of the same dark stone as the rest of the castle. Which is really more a series of caves that were already in Hell when Lucifer came to rule over the few people already living down there in vaguely-organized groups. Hell has always been here, a loose group of states offering a lowlife alternative for people who grew sick of Purgatory, Heaven, or Earth, but Lucifer was the first to reunite them all into one kingdom.

"All the male heirs get sent to Singer's Salvage School. To not do so would completely break tradition, and it would probably mean that no one would ever consider me a real ruler." Sam had read about the school often enough. Apparently it had been owned by a crotchety old family for as long as anyone could remember. The girls' equivalent was Harvelle's. Both were set firmly between Earth, Hell, and Heaven, and refused allegiance to any kingdoms. Because all of the rulers were slightly afraid of the Singers (or, at least, that was the conclusion that Sam had drawn from his reading) no one had ever contested that. "I've read about it."

"Books can only tell you so much. I remember when my oldest brothers and I were there…fun times." Lucifer smirks, all reminiscent about the time before he'd been run out as a teen. "Singer's, as you should know, has a year-long curriculum designed to get you in shape for princehood. Or co-princehood, I should say."

"No, you shouldn't," he mutters, to no avail.

"Future rulers of all ages, from all kingdoms will be there, coexisting peacefully. It's really a lovely thing, Sam. Very nice. I support it intensely; you know I'm not a big fan of war."

"Yeah, you just want to wipe out everyone from Earth 'cause your dad said that even _they_ had a better kingdom than you did. And he was _right_." Sam's never been to Earth, and he's heard it's an absolutely terrible mess of crime, stupidity, and generally the dredges of human life. At the same time, though, he's heard that they have considerably less volcanoes than Hell, and that they've got air that doesn't smell like rotten eggs half the time. He imagines that that must be nice.

"You'll see enough of Earth while you're there," Lucifer replies. He's still not fazed. Lucifer's refusal to get pissed off really pisses Sam off. "And you'll also see your brother, by the way."

"What?" Sam turns around from the wall he was carefully examining and stares at Lucifer, who now has a small smirk on. " _Dean_ is going to be there?"

"The one, the only. Michael put it off for as long as he could, but he had to send him to Singer's at some point. And apparently, his seers have told him that the prophecy thing will come true soon." He raises an eyebrow. "Something that you should consider. You might want to study a bit more diligently with Alistair, unless you want a total dick ruling over us all."

Sam studies plenty with Alistair, the creepy-ass weapons instructor. He just doesn't care about some bullshit prophecy made by a guy named Azazel. Sam has no intentions whatsoever of fighting his brother for Lucifer's sake, and he'll screw destiny, if that's what destiny has in store for him. "The prophecy is a piece of crap."

"You can call it whatever you want, Sam." Lucifer rises from the throne and steps down, silent and cat-like. "I just care about seeing it come true."

There's a lot more that Sam wants to ask, mostly things that relate to the whole 'seeing his brother again' thing. But Lucifer is walking away now, and given his love of dramatic exits, Sam guesses that he's not going to get anything else out of him. Not right now, at least.

"Pack your bags!" he calls as an afterthought. "You leave in the morning."

Sam nods, even though Lucifer can't see him (which, granted, probably is a good thing; if he did, Sam would be stuck listening to a whole sardonically-made speech about what a wonderful, welcome surprise it was for Sam to actually acknowledge him, but was he feeling okay?). So he's going to see Dean, who he doesn't know at all, and who's probably forgotten about him entirely. Great.

Tomorrow, at least, should be interesting.

  


  
Dean stares at Michael, who's smirking in clear enjoyment of all the things that are going through Dean's head right now. "Sam — you mean — _my brother_ is going to be there?"

"Indeed he is. Lucifer, for whatever reason, has decided to send Sam to Singer's this year as well. In all likelihood, he's just sending him to get a reading on you. I promise you Dean, the boy that you meet—he's not going to be some sweet child, as he was at four years." Michael shakes his head in faux-sorrow at the tragedy that he apparently believes in. "Lucifer will have corrupted him, you know. Perverted him into some… _demonic_ thing."

"Fuck you, my brother is _not_ a demon," Dean shoots back. He doesn't know Sam, not really, but this one bit of information is _not_ up for question. Just 'cause Dean doesn't know him doesn't mean that Sam isn't his brother, and Dean Winchester does not have a _demon_ for a brother. Nor does he have a jerk for a brother, or an asshole, or anything like that. He is quite certain that his little brother—who _he_ , not any of their guards or servants, but _he_ , at four, carried out of a burning castle—is a decent, perfect person. And his dick of a king is not going to tell him otherwise.

The way that he just directly swore at Michael clearly hasn't sat well with him. His nostrils are flaring slightly, and there's a certain tic to his jaw that only develops when Dean's really pissed him off. Dean takes some pride in this; Michael spends a lot of time just turning the other cheek, and it can be hard to find the right buttons to press.

"You have no idea what your brother is like. And if you go in with high expectations, I assure you, you _will_ be disappointed." Michael walks back to his throne, an irritatingly high chair with puffy crimson cushions. Expensive jewels are inlaid in the wood. Like most of Heaven, it's probably very pretty from an outsider's perspective. To Dean, it's sickeningly luxurious, like the sauces on most of the dishes that are served at feasts. Just as he'd rather be down in the stables with horse shit under his nails and hay sticking to his hair, he'd rather eat a burger with a bunch of fried, greasy stuff than the latest delicacies from the Northern chefs. "Sam has doubtlessly been twisted beyond recognition by the devil. My spies have assured me of this," he adds quickly, and that sounds more like bull than anything. Dean doesn't even think that there are Heavenly spies who've infiltrated Hell. Virtually everyone here walks around with the same sort of pompous air that just marks them as a rich, ignorant dick. He doesn't think that sort of thing would blend in well with Hell.

"When do I leave?" Dean finally asks, because Michael's glare is making it clear that he doesn't want to say any more on the matter of Sam, or on his not-so-successful spy system, and anyway, Dean kind of wants to get this show on the road. Particularly since said road is going to lead him to Sam, and he hasn't seen Sam in so long, and he wants to. Badly. Because okay, he has to admit that there's a small, infinitesimal part of him that admits that maybe Michael is right. Lucifer is kind of a bastard according to everyone down in the stable (although granted, most of the folks there will say the same about Michael once they've got half-a-jug of homebrewed beer in them, so it's possible that they just hate The Man) and so maybe the kid that he's essentially raised has turned out like him. _Maybe_. Dean isn't willing to admit it until he's actually seen Sam.

"You leave tomorrow. I'll send a courier up to your room to help you pack." Mikey looks mildly thankful at this turn in opinion, like he actually believes that Dean is acquiescing to going to finishing school because he wants to obey Michael's every command. "Oh, and you'll be rooming with one of my brothers."

"I think I'll be rooming with _my_ brother," Dean replies, crossing his arm and putting one foot on the golden ringlet that he dropped from his head earlier. He _probably_ won't damage it, but by the way Michael's eyes are glued to his black boots, he's aware that it is very much a possibility. "You know. The one I haven't seen in twelve years, who you just told me would be at the same school. That brother."

"It's not my decision to make," Michael replies firmly. "They don't allow interkingdom boarding. Or, well, they did when I was there," he amends. "Unfortunately, Gabriel nearly started a war with his roommate, a lovely young fellow from Purgatory-by-the-Sea, and the Singers haven't allowed it since."

Dean smirks a bit at that; he's never met the prodigal Gabriel, who left Heaven and his chance at ruling right around when Lucifer went to Hell. But according to all the stories he's heard, Gabriel is his type of guy. Namely, one who thinks Michael is a total dick.

Still, it doesn't really satisfy his demand to be put with Sam. So he crosses his arms and frowns at Michael, pressing down on the crown with his foot.

Michael's jaw gives that twitch again. "Dean," he says stiffly, "That's been within my family for a number of generations; I would appreciate it if you let up on it. You might not have any objections to your roommate, really," he adds as a last, desperate resort, and because there really isn't anything he can do, Dean decides reluctantly to just flip the golden ringlet up into his hand. There are bigger things he can protest; much as he enjoys pissing off the jerkbag who kidnapped him, he's learned to pick his battles, and at the moment, he has bigger fish to fry. From his throne Michael winces as he steps on the yellow rim and sends it into the air, snatches it out and into his hand. He places it on his head with a ghost of a smirk.

When Dean is done with the show of adjusting it until it sits just so, Michael goes on. "His name is Castiel. I don't believe you've ever met him."

"Castiel." Dean nods, almost displacing the stupid crown as he tests out the name. It's definitely not one that he's familiar with, and he instantly conjures up an image of a mini-Michael: green eyes, features that are set either to 'impassive' or 'annoyed,' a scrawny covering of dark hair. "I suppose that's almost normal, given the standards of your family."

"He's my youngest brother. Twenty-two, so well within your age range. He lives to the north, with Lord Zachariah."

Ah. That name Dean _does_ recognize, and with some scorn, at that. Zach is almost as big a dick as Michael, all smarmy comments with a "Let's take over Earth!" attitude. He never knew that there was someone living with him, though, and he says as much to Michael.

"Yes, well, the fact that Castiel is so far down in terms of succession has rendered him more or less…insignificant." Michael curls his lip up ever so slightly; he has little regard for those with no political weight. Dean wonders if he remembers that he's talking about his _brother_ here, or if he just doesn't care. "I managed to arrange a marriage for him—"

"Arranged marriage?" Dean interrupts, incredulous. "Did you forget that we're living in, y'know modern times? When you actually have chamber pots inside the house?"

"Castiel _is_ of royal blood. It's not expected that he would just find himself a lover and fly away to live off his life as a… _commoner_." Michael wrinkles his nose, like just thinking of those disgusting proletarians conjures up their unwashed smell (ignoring, of course, that most people these days _do_ have some form of indoor plumbing). "He's set to become husband of Dick Roman. Of Leviatha?"

Dick Roman. Dean winces in sympathy for this Castiel guy; there are only a few people that he would wish Dick Roman upon. The guy is a total asshole, ruling over his kingdom with the tightest control possible, and practically eating anyone alive who doesn't live up to his standards (seriously, when he was in Heaven on a diplomatic visit a few months ago, Dean witnessed him chewing out some servant who had accidentally brought him the wrong kind of croissant; he'd have sworn that the guy was about to just open his mouth and swallow the poor fool whole). It hadn't occurred for him to wonder what the guy was in to, or even if he was married back in Purgatory-by-the-Sea, the official name for the land he'd conquered years back. Now he's got his answer on both accounts. "Do you hate your brother or something? The hell'd you agree for him to go with _Dick_?"

"Castiel understands what's expected of him. He's very loyal to me." Michael shrugs, apparently not caring about the sort of thing that he's subjecting his younger brother to. "That's neither here nor there. I'm certain that the two of you can discuss it plenty when you're sharing a room. I just mentioned it so that you'd know that you're sharing a ride with him on the way to Singer's. He'll be here at high noon tomorrow. Be prepared for then; I'll see to it that you're sent off."

"Fine." Dean turns to leave the throne room, not bothering to bow or any of that crap that everyone else does before Mike. But as he's leaving, something important occurs to him, and he turns back to Michael, who raises a questioning eyebrow. "Can I bring my horse?"

"Your horse? That old mare?" Michael wrinkles his nose. "No, of course not. You want to represent yourself _well_ to the future lords and kings that you'll be studying alongside. I'll see to it that Gordon sends a different one along. One of this year's geldings will do just fine, I think."

"No." Dean crosses his arms and glares furiously, a thousand responses to the insult burning up within him. "Tell him to send Impala."

"Dean, be reasonable. She's barely going to match up to the other animals there—"

"Don't care. If Impala doesn't go, I don't go." His mare was the daughter of his father's warhorse, Chevy, who Michael took when he kidnapped Dean. She's ten years, which is old amongst the stables, but Dean's been working with her since she was nothing more than the last of Chevy's offspring, a gangly little all-black filly. She's his baby, and no one takes her away from him.

They hold each other's gaze for a moment. Finally, just when Dean thinks that he might actually have a chance at setting Michael's head on fire, the douche relents, throwing up his hands and then banging them down on the wooden arms of the throne. "I'll speak to Gordon about it."

Dean smirks. He'll speak with Gordon too, and seeing as he's the one that's been working down there with Gordon for years, he's fairly sure he knows whose voice will carry more weight with the grizzled Head of Stables. And it's not the one who forgets to pay him for days that end with "y."

With that taken care of, he saunters out of the throne room and goes to start packing.

In the end, Castiel gives Grace to Balthazar. He hands her over with little ceremony after he's explained the situation and listened to Balthazar bemoan his terrible arranged marriage.

"Me?" says the stable boy from the western part of the kingdom when the bird hops onto his wrist, raising his eyebrows in mock exaggeration. "You're giving your most beloved pet to _me_? Castiel, I'm _flattered_. I had no idea that you cared so much!"

Castiel smiles wryly. Balthazar is his oldest friend and, when you get down to it, really his _only_ friend. He's been an essential part of Castiel's life since he came to Zachariah's manor ten years ago, to begin working as a page for one or another of the knights. Somehow, he never progressed past that stage (Castiel guesses that his mild kleptomania probably has something to do with it; he'd have been thrown out long ago, if it weren't for Castiel's repeated pleas to Zachariah) and he's been in the stables ever since then.

He was also Castiel's first… lover, for lack of a better term. There's nothing particularly emotional between them on that level, but as soon as they were both of age, Balthazar had turned to him and said, "Castiel, you're good-looking, and I think we both know that you at least swing in the direction that's got outies instead of innies. Now, I've got a lovely little place by the barn, and if you don't mind a bit of hay being around, I think that we could have a _very_ good time tonight."

Apparently, Castiel is a sucker for romantic pickup lines (or he was too dumbstruck to protest, not that he would've anyway) because he accepted Balthazar's outstretched hand, and they've been screwing casually ever since. 'Casually,' of course, is pretty much the only way that Balthazar goes; Castiel is fairly certain that he's been around the castle twice, save for Zachariah. And he doesn't mind, not at all. Sex with Balthazar is always fun.

Now Balthazar is sprawled out on a hay bale in the barn, stroking Grace. She hops from side to side, knowing that she isn't with Castiel, but Balthazar has used her before, so at least she's not being left to a total stranger. "Thank you, though, Castiel. She's lovely."

Castiel nods, watching him carefully. He knows that Balthazar will work diligently with her, but it still feels like he's giving part of himself up. "I'll speak to Uriel about it tonight. I'm sure he won't be concerned with her change in ownership." Uriel heads the manor's aviary, among other things. Really, he gets what needs to be done, done; he's technically Zachariah's second-in-command. As much as he looks down upon Castiel for his occasional bouts of not-entirely-obedient talk, no one can possibly deny that he's very good at keeping birds.

"I'll bring her up there right now." Balthazar stands to his full height, carefully keeping Grace steady. "And maybe later, when you're done packing, you could come down to my place and have a little going-away party…?"

Castiel smiles, although the pain at knowing that this is the last time he'll see Grace does sting. "I'm looking forward to it already."

"Good!" Balthazar starts off for the aviary. "Until tonight, then, Cassie!"

He shakes his head as he watches his best friend saunter away, feeling an unexpected pang in his chest. He's going to miss him more than he realized.

But of course, Castiel thinks as he heads to his own chambers to figure out what he needs to take, such is the life of one of the descendants of God. He hates having to go off and marry some stranger from Leviathan, particularly one whose cruelty is legendary. However, for all that he expresses his irritation with Zachariah, and for all that he does break a few unwritten rules by going to Balthazar's rooms some evenings, Castiel is not disobedient. When push comes to shove, High Price Michael's rule is law, and Castiel does not disobey the law.

  


  
Sam is packed and ready to go before the sun has cast its last light over the twisted, ugly terrain of Hell. Really, there isn't much to bring—he doesn't bother with his personal library, since it's a school and all that, and his clothes don't take long to toss into a trunk. He's left lying on his large, plush bed and staring at the ceiling, wondering what, exactly, he's supposed to do with the rest of the day.

Angsting, he figures, would probably be a good idea. He's a teenager, so naturally, he does a lot of that. And anyway, it isn't like he doesn't have some pretty legitimate things to angst over. Like the whole 'about to meet the brother that he hasn't seen in twelve years' thing.

Before he can begin his teenage version of suffering, however, a knock at the door provides a slightly more uplifting alternative for the night. "Sam?" a sweet voice calls out. "Sam, can I come in?"

He sits up, almost smacking his head against the headboard. "Ruby! Yeah, of course. Come on in."

And come in she does— _slinks_ in, really, in that way that she does. Ruby is incredibly beautiful, with long, dark brown curls and full, red lips. Sam knows that she's really just another pawn of Lucifer's, but damn it, he's a sixteen-year-old boy, and he does have kind of a sex drive.

Not that Ruby can satisfy that; no, he's still stuck with his right hand. Sam thinks that Fate must have something against him, because it would just _figure_ that the loveliest, most seductive girl in the castle is the one who's training under Lilith, working to become a priestess. Sam knows that it's against Ruby's vows as a trainee to have any lovers. It's only when she becomes like Lilith, a full-fledged magic-worker and advisor to Lucifer that she can hook up with another person.

That's never prevented them from hanging out, though. Sam is pretty sure that she works somewhat with Lucifer, or at the very least, that she's been told to try to seduce him fully into the idea of becoming Hell's next top man. And she has, albeit in subtle, hard-to-recognize ways. But it hasn't worked yet, and now that he's going away, Sam is pretty sure that it won't.

Now she sits on the edge of his bed and frowns at him, her lower lip sticking out in a pout that, okay, that is _way_ sexier than it ought to be, especially considering that he's pretty sure she's just joking around with it. "I just heard that you're going away tomorrow."

"Yeah." He nods, fully meeting the intensity of her dark eyes. "To Singer's Finishing School. Lucifer figures that it's about time I start shaping up to be a prince."

She shakes her head, and her soft curtain of hair brushes against him. "That's not very nice, Sam. Now who am I supposed to go to the night after Lilith initiates me into a full-fledged priestess?"

He gulps, forcing the image of what he had imagined that night to be like out of his head. "I don't know. If it helps, I feel badly about that, too."

She laughs. "Sam, you are _such_ a typical boy. I'll bet you don't even like me for my personality."

And okay, that probably has a grain of truth in it. He knows that she's not entirely goodhearted; that, like most of Hell's citizens, she looks out for herself first and foremost, and that she really wants him to ally up with Lucifer, which he, by the way, has no intentions whatsoever of doing. Still, she's _Ruby_. He's known her for about five years, since they were both on the verge of teenhood and she first began studying with Lucifer's creepy-ass prophetess. Under most circumstances, he'd probably hate her. But she has been his friend for quite some time, and even if their friendship was one based mostly on hormones and loneliness, he can't discount it completely. "Come on, Ruby. You know that's not true."

Ruby just laughs again. She can see right through him, has always been able to. "Are you ready for school, Sam? Ready to go so far away?" She leans in close as she speaks; he can feel the soft press of her breasts against his arm. He bites down hard on his lip. _He_ knows that she's doing it on purpose, teasing him with her vows of chastity, but his body doesn't really care very much.

"I'm sixteen, Ruby." Sam leans away from her and tries desperately to ignore the growing hardness in his pants. Damn his hormones. "I can't stay here forever."

"You'll come back, though, right?" She sits up straight, turning off the joking seductiveness, and replacing it with the passionate seriousness that's a bit more true to her nature. "Tell me that you're going to come back, Sam."

"Of course I will. I don't think that Lucifer would allow anything else." He rolls his eyes, not afraid of being disparaging of Lucifer in front of Ruby. Not that he wouldn't do the same thing in front of Lucifer himself, of course. Sam doesn't really censor himself very often. "One year, and then I'm all set to just start being co-ruler of the world with him. After I fight my brother and all that, of course." He shakes his head. It's a really stupid prophecy, probably one of the vaguest ever made, but so much has been done based upon it. Such as the whole thing with he and his brother being kidnapped by agents of Heaven and Hell three days after their father's castle burned down.

"Yeah, but you've never really cared what Lucifer has to say." She plays with her hair for a moment, deep in thought. "Still. It's gonna be really boring without you around."

"You can amuse yourself, I'm sure. You always do."

"I know. And there's the whole 'studying to become a prophetess' thing. Keeps me kind of busy, that."

"I'd guess that it would." They settle into a companionable silence. Ruby eventually lies back, her hair falling in a dark halo surrounding her head; Sam crosses his legs and avoids looking too long. He really is going to miss her. She's unquestionably not a particularly moral person, and she doubtlessly reports all of their actions at least back to Lilith, if not to Lucifer himself, but she's played the role of his friend for quite some time. That's not quite something that he lets go lightly.

Eventually the light that streams in through the stony windows of Sam's chamber is warm and orange, the last of the sunset. Ruby sits up, glancing outside. "I should be heading back. Lilith will want me soon."

"Yeah." Sam watches her walk to the door with a pang of regret. "Bye, Ruby. I'll see you when I get back."

"Course you will." She grins. "Maybe by then I'll be waiting in my priestess robes, and I'll greet you when you get off the carriage… and maybe if you haven't fallen in with some goody-two-shoes from Harvelle's, then you can greet me with arms that are wide open…"

Sam laughs, and thinks that yeah, he's definitely going to be bathing in some ice-cold water tonight.

  


  
"By the way," Balthazar says casually, with one hand lingering near Castiel's crotch and the other holding a probably-stolen cigarette, "I'm going to be driving you to the school, you know."

Castiel sits straight up, dislodging Balthazar. This post-coitus ritual of smoking and small talk is the closest that they've ever come to cuddling. Which is probably a good thing, because cuddling with Balthazar? Would be highly uncomfortable on an emotional level.

This, however, isn't exactly small talk. "What did you say?"

"You heard me." He smirks and takes a long drag from his cigarette. The small cottage that he lives in isn't exactly aerated well, and it perpetually smells like some unidentifiable herb that might or might not be legal. "Actually, Uriel told me when I brought Grace to the aviary. Apparently they've finally taken notice of my stellar carriage driving skills. And no one feels like going down to the Earth border in what's supposed to be pouring rain. We're heading down at around sixish," he adds, and then follows that up with, "Oh, and you'll never guess who your roommate is."

"My roommate?" Castiel lowers himself back down to the bulky mattress, lying on his side so that he's facing Balthazar. "How would you know this? Zachariah didn't mention anything about a roommate to me."

"Because I'm—well, _we're_ —picking him up. Come on, guess." He smirks, and Castiel is quite certain that he won't go on until he at least tries.

"Oh, I don't know. Lucifer's heir. Sam Winchester." He throws the name out at random, trying to figure out who, exactly, would be the polar opposite of him, an insignificant Heavenly prince.

"That's remarkably close." Balthazar wraps his lips around the cig in an entirely inappropriate manner, and when he's done fellating it, he says smugly, "Dean Winchester."

" _Dean_?" For the second time since they finishing screwing, Castiel sits straight up. "Balthazar, you can't be serious."

Balthazar raises an eyebrow as he says, "I'm fairly certain that Uriel isn't into joking," and okay, Castiel has to admit that's probably right. "Apparently we're stopping at the High Castle to pick him up before we get to Singer's."

"You couldn't have told me this before? Balthazar, I'm completely unprepared for this. I was planning to wear just casual clothes for travelling; you can't just tell me that we're probably going to encounter the High Prince without giving me time to prepare for it." He tosses the scratchy, off-white sheets from his body and swings his bare feet over the side, onto the packed dirt floor. "I need to have my formal clothing ready."

"Castiel." Balthazar reaches out and clasps a hand around his wrist; he turns around, annoyed. The look of amusement on his friend's face makes it clear that he doesn't understand how important a meeting with Michael is. "Relax. It'll be raining anyway; you could be naked under your cloak, and no one would notice. And I don't know that we're going to be meeting with Michael, anyway. Just with Dean, and from what I've heard, Michael's heir isn't exactly a stickler for formalities."

He tugs on Castiel's wrist, and Castiel reluctantly allows himself to be pulled back onto the mattress. Balthazar pulls the sheet up and, after extinguishing the cigarette, leans in close to Castiel, bracing his head in his hands. Castiel instinctively wriggles away from the strongly unpleasant scent on his breath; he rolls his eyes. "Stop. Worrying. You're going to be in school in a day, and you'll probably find some new and better lover—someone who won't be bedding the scullery made within the week," he adds, grinning devilishly. "Let's make our last night together a damn lovely one, okay?"

And Castiel sighs, but because it's Balthazar that he's dealing with, he agrees to one last round of bliss before they fall asleep together, waiting for tomorrow to arrive.

  
  


Predictably, tomorrow dawns sunny and warm. Castiel gives Balthazar a death glare as he scrambles to get dressed, having only the change of casual clothes which he'd brought to Balthazar's cottage the night before. Everything else is out of his reach, packed inside a trunk that was buried somewhere within a carriage.

"I loathe you right now," he growls, combing his fingers quickly through his hair. Naturally, they're half an hour late to leave. "Utterly, _utterly_ loathe."

Balthazar shrugs from his place on the bed, where he lounges fully dressed. His hair is messy and ruffled, and there's two days' worth of stubble upon his chin. They have considerably lower dressing standards down in the barn than they do for those who might one day be up in the castle. "That's not what you said last evening. Such a fickle lover, Castiel."

"I hope you realize that I am about to meet our High Price, looking like I just got out of bed after a long night of fucking with our stable boy," he snaps back. He jams the thin golden ringlet that is his only crown upon his head. "I hope you realize that he'll probably take one look at me and assume that I'm nothing more than a…a _commoner_ , pretending to be a prince. He'll probably assume that I have no manners whatsoever, and—and—"

" _Castiel_ ," Balthazar interrupts. He lumbers up onto his feet, stretching as he does, and then takes three steps until he's standing behind Castiel. He puts his hands on his shoulder and says, "Breathe."

It takes more effort to follow the order than it probably should. Balthazar waits patiently until he's finally finished with one ragged inhalation. "First of all, Michael is not going to think that you're a commoner. We'll be arriving there in an official royal carriage, so he's going to see the crest. Secondly, you might not even meet Michael. He probably just wants to throw Dean at us and see to it that we leave. Thirdly and finally, Michael thinking lowly of you can only be a good thing, right? You don't want him forcing you off to Dick. Maybe if he thinks that you're enough of a country bumpkin he'll call it off."

Castiel sighs, relaxing with some reluctance. Balthazar is way too good at calming him down at moments when he really should be panicking. "I don't think he'll call off the engagement. From what I understand, Dick Roman is not the sort of man that you just call things off on."

"Still. Worth a shot." Balthazar opens up the cottage door, letting in a beam of wonderfully warm 6:30 AM sunlight. "Cassie, you look as lovely as you're ever going to. Shall we head out now?"

  


  
The carriage arrives for Dean at half-past noon. Dean knows this because Michael has insisted on waiting with him. And Michael is…well, to put it mildly, he isn't too fond of tardiness. He glances over at the old-fashion sundial every two seconds, a look like he's furiously constipated upon his face.

"It's about time," he growls when it finally appears in the distance. "Dean, get up. Castiel may not be important, but you have to appear princely before him."

Dean, who's been sitting rather comfortably upon the larger of his two trunks, rolls his eyes at Michael's bizarre fixation with appearances. He does stand, though; although that's really more to stretch his legs than to appease the High Prince.

"High Prince Michael!" The carriage pulls to a short stop that nearly dislodges the driver, a tall man with a Northern accent who is rather flamboyant in his gestures. He leaps off of the driver's seat, pausing only to stroke the flank of one of the two horses, and then bows deep. "May I present to you Prince Castiel, fathered by His Royal Majesty, the since-departed High King of Heaven, raised by Lord Zachariah, and last in line to the throne of the direct line of the King!"

He makes an over-exaggerated gesture as he opens up the carriage, a simple black affair with four wheels, windows, and the royal cross-with-a-halo seal upon its doors. Dean can't decide if he loves, hates, or admires the nameless driver guy. He thinks it's probably some combination of the three; at least Driver has the balls to not be shaking before Michael. Dean hates it when people do that, like the High Prince is some sort of godly, superhuman figure, instead of a regular old douchebag with an overinflated ego.

Before he can ponder upon it longer, though, Prince Castiel steps out, and Dean gets his first look at the guy with whom he'll be rooming with for the next year.

His first impression is that Castiel is underdressed. And no, that's not something that Dean usually notices; normally, he would think that the dark pants and loose, white shirt are perfectly acceptable clothes to be out in—a little _too_ formal, if anything. But the way that Michael narrows his eyes into snake slits and lets out an irritated huff of breath makes it clear that he expects Castiel to be in the most formal of his formalwear. Like Dean is, for example, in an itchy blue tunic emblazoned with the royal crest, black leggings, and high, shiny leather boots. Dean hates it.

"High Prince Michael." Castiel bows deep. There's a certain tension to his jaw that makes Dean believe that he hasn't been immune to Michael's critical eye. "It is good to see you again."

"Yes, I suppose I should say the same for you. Although it would be better to see you in proper attire, Castiel."

"I understand, and I apologize. There was… a delay in my departure, and I hadn't wished to keep you waiting any longer." And by the way that the carriage driver raises his eyebrows at _delay_ , and the way that Castiel subsequently colors red and shoots him a death glare, Dean is going to guess that the two of them were probably both… _involved_ in said delay.

And come to think of it, Dean can sort of see what the driver might be attracted to. Castiel's got Michael's freakishly pale complexion, but the dark hair and bright blue eyes are different. Dean guesses that he's probably a few inches shorter than him. All in all, he really isn't bad-looking.

"See to it that you improve your punctuality," orders Michael. "I expect that Lord Roman won't take so kindly to a husband who can't be bothered to be on time."

"Of course, High Prince," Castiel grits out. His cheeks are flaming, although whether with anger or humiliation, Dean can't tell. Either way, he decides to take pity on the guy.

"Are you going to bother to introduce us?" he asks Michael pointedly. The deliberate disrespect causes Michael to glare furiously, a comical look of surprise to appear on Castiel's face, and the carriage driver to give a small laugh.

"Of course. I was going to do so in my own time," Michael answers, furiousness simmering just beneath his translucent surface. "Prince Dean, this is Prince Castiel, youngest of my siblings, your roommate at Singer's Salvage School, and future husband to Lord Dick Roman of Leviatha. Prince Castiel, this is Prince Dean, future fulfiller of Azazel's Prophecy, and future co-ruler of all lands under Heaven."

Castiel bows, as is proper. Dean is exceedingly tempted to bow back to him just to see what Michael's reaction is. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Prince Dean."

"Same to you, Prince Castiel." He decides to just nod. There's time enough to be improper later.

"Well." Michael nods at the both of them. "Driver, aren’t you supposed to help the Prince with his trunks?"

"Of course, your Majesty. I was just waiting to make sure that doing so was proper. Some princes prefer to handle their own luggage, and all of that." He bows again, and then steps toward the trunks. "Prince Dean, may I?"

It's not quite a defiance to Michael, but it's something close to it. Dean kinda likes this Balthazar — he seems like a bit of a dick, but the kind who'd piss off Michael more than him. "How 'bout I get one and you get the other?"

"Fantastic!" Balthazar claps his hands, and, in front of an incredulous Michael and Castiel, they load up the carriage. It's a small, cramped space, with Castiel's trunks and his, but Dean thinks that he can manage.

"Are we ready to go?" Balthazar asks when they're done. " Prince Castiel? Prince Dean?"

"Uh. Yes. If the other princes are okay with that, then I've completely ready to go." Castiel straightens his shirt, looking flustered as he makes one last attempt to keep things proper.

"I'm peachy." Dean looks at Michael and grins. "Bye, Mikey. See you at visiting week, or what-have-you."

They should probably get going, because Dean expects that prophecy or not, Michael is about to run him through with his sword. In a voice tighter than a dead man's lips he growls out, "Goodbye, Dean."

Castiel quickly bows to Michael and mutters some sort of formal goodbye. Michael glares at him, and responds in the curtest way possible.

And then they're off, two strangers riding in a carriage to the place that's going to be their home for the next year.

Castiel lets Prince Dean choose his seat in the carriage first; he picks the one against the driver's side. It was where Castiel was sitting before, allowing him to speak in close conversation with Balthazar. He doesn't bother to correct Dean, though, because he far outranks Castiel. Even if he certainly doesn't _act_ like it.

For the first ten minutes or so, the ride is taken in complete silence. Castiel tries to avoid the temptation to study his new roommate, the supposed future ruler of all the known world, if Michael's interpretation of the Prophecy is to be understood. It would be most improper to lay his eyes upon one of such a great rank, as tempting as the prospect is.

Dean, on the other hand, has no such reservations. He studies Castiel with a curiosity that makes him so uncomfortable that he actually _looks_ _back_ , fixing Prince Dean with his intense stare that, as Balthazar has told him numerous times, would make a blind man look away.

When he realizes that he's been observed, Dean blushes ever so slightly and then looks away, which only makes Castiel feel worse. Their relationship has not begun well, and although he isn't one to instantly expect some sort of friendship, he had hoped that he could at least be cordial with the man that he's spending a year in exceedingly close quarters with. "I apologize," he says quickly. "It isn't proper for me to look at you like that."

"What?" Dean's eyebrows shoot up; the surprise makes Castiel more uncomfortable than his look did. Does he know nothing of how these things are supposed to work? He is _beneath_ _Dean_. It isn't his _place_ to stare at him. But before he can inform his superior of this oh-so-clear etiquette, Dean says, "Castiel—that's a mouthful; can I just call you Cas?—Cas, look. It's cool. All of the rules and proper stuff? I don't really go for that."

"Oh." Castiel cocks his head slightly, frowning. "The High Prince allowed that?"

"Nope." Dean grins. "But really, you don't need to bother with it. Trust me. I don't want to end up sitting on Heaven's throne anyway; far as I'm concerned, there's no need to stick with all of the stupid rules that go along with it."

"Oh, you're _my_ kind of king," Balthazar calls from where he's driving the horses up front. "Cassie, I like him. Let's keep him."

Castiel flushes red for what feels like the tenth time that day. Damn Balthazar for being so… so _Balthazar_.

Dean, on the other hand, doesn't seem to take offense. No, he actually laughs. "I like you," he calls, craning his neck around to look at Bal. "What did you say your name was?"

"It's Balthazar, your highest of Highnesses. Stable boy and courier extraordinaire."

Dean nods, taking in the mouthful of a name. "You're not heading to Singer's, then?"

"Oh, no. Even if the birth thing wasn't an issue, I'm hardly prince material anyway. I'm far too…how should I put this... _unorthodox_ in my behavior. Not like Cassie _at all_ ," he adds, with an overly deep sigh. "He's far too obedient when it comes to dealing with authority."

"Oh, really?" Dean raises an eyebrow and grins at Castiel. He feels heat rush to his face _again_ , and okay, he really has to stop doing that. He isn't some sort of blushing virgin, and even if he was, Dean would _hardly_ be deflowering him, and why is he thinking like this?  "We'll just have to cure him of that, won't we?"

"Please do," Balthazar groans. "Loosen him up. Metaphorically, of course; I think I've done just fine—"

"Balthazar!" Castiel glares at the back of his friend's head with an intensity that he is quite sure that he can feel. Dean's amusement really isn't helping for his blushing situation. "That's enough."

"Not what you said last night," he mutters childishly, and Castiel is entirely prepared to die right _now_ ; just enter a state of complete nonexistence, one in which he doesn't have to share a room with a man who's just got an image of him and his best friend in bed.

Predictably, Balthazar just chuckles from up front. He leaves it at that, though, and the three of them fall into a mostly companionable silence. Castiel watches the landscape of Heaven meander by them as they drive on—not because he's interested in it, particularly (although the fields and forests are pleasant on a day like this) but because it's far preferable to looking at Dean.

Dean, for his part, seems to take the same route as Castiel, just watching the landscape as they pass. When Castiel decided, for some bizarre reason, to actually sneak a glance at him, he actually seems fairly interested in what he's seeing.

And really, Dean isn't bad looking. Far from it, actually. His skin is pleasantly tanned, and his hair is an interesting shade that straddles between blond and brown. He's got full lips and attractive eyes, and just as Castiel is contemplating that, he naturally turns around and looks right at him, grinning slightly. And then Castiel blushes again.

Rooming with this Dean is _not_ , he thinks, going to be a particularly pleasant experience.

Sam leaves Hell at precisely noontime. Ruby is stuck in a ritual with Lilith, and so there's only Lucifer there to see him off.

"Make me proud," he says, smirking and clasping down on Sam's shoulder. "It might get you expelled, but just do what I would."

Sam rolls his eyes and shakes off Lucifer's clawed grip. He adjusts the bag hanging from his shoulder. "I'd rather not, thanks."

Lucifer chuckles. "I know you will. See ya, Sam."

Sam grunts and steps into the coal-black carriage with Lucifer's trident upon its doors. The driver, Meg, glances back. "You ready, Sammy?"

"Don't call me that," he grumbles, and then quickly and grudgingly follows that up with, "Yeah." Meg is one of Lucifer's closest advisors, and she tends to run a lot of his errands. Of all the demons that he knows, she's one of the… well, he can't say that she's less morally corrupt than the others. But there's a certain stark honesty to her corruption, unlike Ruby's usual veneer of innocence, and he respects that.

"Good." She flicks the rains, and the giant steeds that make it look like Hell is compensating for something start off at a gallop. She yells to him, "You ready for this, Sam? Sure you can deal with being away from Hell for so long?"

"Certain." He leans back and watches the mostly-deserts of Hell roll on by. Hell is a flat, ugly place, stretching down from where the verdant earthen fields end. Most of it is a complete wasteland of sand and sulfur. The economy is sustained almost entirely on illicit industries (although there _is_ a very good weapon-making business out there; Ruby herself is quite talented at forging knives).

An indeterminate amount of time passes before it occurs to Sam to speak to Meg about something that's been gnawing at him like a teething hound ever since he spoke to Lucifer. He leans halfway out the front carriage window and calls, trying to be heard above the pounding of the horses' hooves, "Meg?"

"Yeah?" she calls, not bothering to look back at him.

"What do you know about Dean?"

"Your brother?"

"Of course." He resists the urge to add a snarky, "What other Dean do you know of?" Because really, Meg has been around a _lot._ She probably knows a lot of Deans.

"The Boss-Man want me to be talking about this?"

"I don't think he cares." They pass one of the rare trees in Hell's scenery, short, stunted, and bare of those legendary things called leaves. "Does it make a difference?"

"Hey." Now she actually does crane her neck around to look at him. In the harsh afternoon light, her eyes look practically black. "Say what you will about me, Sammy, but I'm loyal to my king."

"I know." He leans back against his seat, holding his hands up in a mock-surrender gesture. "But really, I don't think he cares. He knows I'm gonna meet him at Singer's anyway. At this point, what difference does it make?"

"Fair enough." The pair of black horses yanking the cart ahead slows just so. "I really don't know much of him. Not like Heaven and Hell have crystal clear communications in place, you know?"

"Yeah." Sam tries to ignore the disappointment that bubbles like sucky champagne in the back of his throat. "You've never heard _anything_ about him, then?"

"Did I say that?" There's a definite smirk on her lips right now, and he rolls his eyes. That's probably Meg in a nutshell. "I've heard a few things. Apparently he's a real looker."

"Meg!" Sam splutters a bit, really glad that he wasn't swallowing anything at that moment. "I don't care if I haven't seen him in twelve years; he's my _brother_."

"I know," and yeah, smirk. A large one, from what he can tell; she's getting far more out of this than she should. "Guess it runs in the family."

He sinks into the black leather as best he can, trying to disappear. Soon all that's visible with him will be the exceedingly redness of his cheeks, which has absolutely nothing to do with the high sun above.

"Relax. Even I've got more morals than to screw around with our future king…when you're still so young," she adds, all but laughing openly. He bites down on his bottom lip almost hard enough to draw blood. He forgets sometimes that Meg really isn't too much older than him. "Anyway, your brother? Apparently he's a real piece of work. I've heard that the dick to the north can't _stand_ him." She speaks like she's letting him on to some piece of juicy gossip—which, to be fair, she kind of is. "He's rebellious, doesn't want to fulfill the prophecy, doesn't want to rule… should be an easy takedown in a fight," she adds.

"Huh." Sam had spent the night after Ruby left doing the angsting he'd wanted to get done, and in that time, the main thought that had been swimming around like an old trout through his mind was _What if he's like Michael?_ Although Sam was damn well smart enough to recognize that all of his information had come from a highly biased source, it was hard to shake the belief that he'd grown up with—namely, that Michael was a total and utterly reprehensible person who loathed everyone who wasn't him or his heir. And while Sam knew that might have been a wee bit of an exaggeration, logic told him that most exaggerations stemmed from truth. And so what if Dean was like Michael? What if Dean just hated him because he'd grown up in Hell, not Heaven? What if he didn't _get_ that Sam didn't want to complete some stupid prophecy, and that he just wanted to live his life alone, away from the Heavenly Family's business?

Now Sam thinks that maybe, just maybe, he might have gotten ahead of himself with the whole angsting thing. Maybe Dean isn't so bad. Maybe this won't suck so much after all.

He sits up straight, new anticipation coursing through his body. He's going to see his brother, and maybe everything will just flow right from there.

Dean feels better than he has for, well, ever. It's a beautiful day, and Heaven spreads before him with more possibilities than it ever has before. And to top it off, he's travelling to his brother with two decent-seeming guys, and _he's getting away from Michael_. That alone makes this practically the best day ever.

But as he, Castiel, and Balthazar ride on, the seriousness of the situation gradually overcomes him. There are a million and one variables that are out of his control at the very moment, and he isn't entirely sure what solution he wants them to equal in the first place. Dean isn't one for goal-planning and all that crap, but he kind of wishes that he had a better idea of what he wants to do at Singer's. Since, obviously, he really isn't going to bother with the whole, "Preparing to be a prince" thing.

That, he figures, would make a good conversation topic, and so he asks Prince Castiel, now officially "Cas" in his mind, about it. "What do you want to do at Singer's, Cas?"

Castiel starts (although he shouldn't be _that_ surprised; Dean is very much aware of the glances he's been sneaking). "Well, I expect that I'll be trained in the art of being a proper gentleman. I suppose that I'll have to apply that to my own situation, to figure out how I can best use what I learn to be a proper…husband to Dick Roman."

"Oh, come on." Dean shakes his head, which makes him kind of dizzy considering how he can feel every little bump of the tiny carriage that they're in. "You don't really want to marry him, do you? The guy's a total ass."

"Oh, no," Balthazar calls from the front. He turns to look at Dean, even though they're on a fairly twisty road that probably requires total attention. "He really _doesn't_. Not at all. Of course, he'd _never_ admit it, but Castiel loathes the idea of an arranged marriage. He just can't ever imagine disobeying Michael."

"Really." Dean glances at a Castiel that's glaring resolutely at Balthazar, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't peg you as that sort of type, Cas. I would've thought that you'd have a mind of your own."

The words are said in jest, of course; Dean got the impression as soon as Castiel bowed to Michael that he was the more… obedient sort. Not the ass-sucking kind, thank goodness, but the sort that played entirely by the book. Who'd never _read_ a different book, because that would be utter blasphemy (which isn't to say that Castiel isn't intelligent; he looks very well-read, which, okay, is a really weird thing for Dean to be thinking about). But Castiel blushes like furious, which he seems to do a lot, and says quickly, "I… I do think for myself, of course. However, to disobey the orders of the High Prince would be madness. I could never rebel, not with the threat of exile, or worse, hanging over my head. Heaven is all that I know," he adds as an afterthought. "My family, my friends, my _life_ is all here. I would not risk losing that."

Dean is about to point out that he's going to lose it _anyway_ , with the whole being-sent-off-to-marry-Dick-Roman-of-Leviatha thing, but Balthazar speaks before he can. Or rather, he gives a particularly contemptuous snort before launching into a speech. "Friends? Family? Come on, Cassie. Your family is made up of a whole bunch of jerks—oh, don't look at me like that; you've heard me say _far_ worse—and I don't think that you've got a friend in the world besides myself."

"That's not true," Castiel replies defensively. He's glaring at Balthazar again, and Dean wanders how the two of them ever ended up sleeping together, with the amount of bickering that they seem to do.

There's a short pause, and then Balthazar says wryly, "Well? Are you going to provide me with a counterexample?"

"…no," Castiel admits. "But I don't need one. The point that I've lived my whole life in Heaven remains, and I wouldn't risk losing that."

"You're marrying Dick anyway, though, right?" Dean points out. "What's the point of staying obedient if you're just going to be kicked out because of it?"

Castiel opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns as though the idea has never come over him. He sinks into the plush seats, looking slightly confused with the new idea. Deciding to push his luck, Dean says, "Look, Cas, from what I know? Balthazar is _right_. Everyone in your family is a giant, pompous dick. And they've probably brainwashed you into thinking that this is all you can do. Hell, Mikey's tried to do that a million times to me, but you know what? I'm not gonna go for that. I'm going to get to Singer's, and I'm… I'm… I'm gonna do _something_ different with my life. I don't know what that's going to be, but you can bet your ass on that it's not going to involve sitting around and watching Heaven from some dumbass gilded throne," he finishes up firmly. "It's going to be something good, and if I can stand up and defy my crappy destiny, then there's no reason why you can't do the same to yours."

"Hear, hear!" Balthazar calls triumphantly from up front. Across from him, Castiel is still frowning as he studies Dean with a startling intentness. Dean does his best not to squirm under it.

"I suppose that it's…something to think about," he admits, finally tearing his eyes away. "Maybe."

And although there's absolutely no reason _why_ he should be so preoccupied with the future of a man that he met only a few hours ago, Dean decides to count that as a victory.

  


  
Prince Dean speaks again several minutes later, pulling Castiel out of his silently moody ponderings. "Hey, are either of you familiar with Lucifer's heir? Sam?"

"He's your brother, isn't he?" Castiel asks without thinking. He winces; that's a personal question, and all of the etiquette ingrained within him says that it's not his place to care about other people, nor is it appropriate to strike up such conversation with those above him.

Dean doesn't seem to have been affected by it, though; his curious expression doesn't change a bit as he replies, "Well, yeah. But I haven't seen him since I was eight, so I don't really know what he's like."

"My sources say that he's not too fond of Lucifer," Balthazar replies. "And that he's a teenager. Probably a bucket of angst, though I suppose that's not unique to teen folk, hey, Cassie?"

Castiel ignores the dig at his serious ("brooding," according to Balthazar on his kinder days) nature. "What 'sources? You know that there's no contact between Heaven and Hell.'"

"Remember those traders that came through a matter of months back? They were bringing in those Earth-made shoes, the one with the gorgeous soles that I bought? Well, you know that they weren't supposed to talk about it, but I found out that they'd been to Hell. And when I loosened them up, they were pretty talkative about it, too." Balthazar chuckles at the memory. "God, the things that came out of their mouths—"

"Balthazar," Castiel says warningly. Then, to Dean, "I wish I could help you, but if Zachariah knew more than I did about Hell, then he didn't share it."

"Don't worry about it." Dean flashes him an easygoing smile, and it takes all of Castiel's self-control to keep his cheeks from reddening _again_. This is getting extremely pathetic. "It's just that he's going to be at Singer's, in our class, and, you know, he's my brother. I'm kinda looking forward to seeing him again."

His voice holds an easy affection as he talks, as if he isn't speaking about the other one in Azazel's Prophecy; the one with whom he'll have to eventually fight on some unknown stage—fight and, presumably, kill. It surprises Castiel, how he talks as though he cares deeply for Sam's wellbeing. Castiel's own siblings are so numerous and so widely-spread that he sees them the way he does anyone else in Heaven: as strangers who are more likely to turn out bad rather than good; people to be regarded with intense wariness coupled with the proper politeness, until they've proven themselves to be something else.

From the driver's seat, Balthazar has the tact to say what he doesn't. "Looking forward? That's rather morbid. Doesn't Michael expect you to kill him?"

"Yeah, but I'm not going to." For the first time, a note of defensiveness enters his voice. "It's like I've been saying, I don't want to rule Heaven. I don't want to kill my brother just 'cause some old wizard said that it was supposed to be that way. I'll figure everything out at Singer's, but I can say for certain that I'm _not_ going to fight Sam. Or I'm not going to kill him, at least. I'd rather die than have to kill my own brother."

"That's noble of you." Balthazar makes a small clicking sound that might be directed at the horses; either that or he's "Tsk'ing" at Dean's perceived gallantness. "Me, I'd just save my skin if I were in your position, but I suppose I should respect your choice."

The landscape has gradually changed from the overly-green and sometimes nauseatingly lush fields of Heaven into bumpy areas that divide evenly between dirt, grass, and rocks. The trees that grow up aren't the ancient, statuesque ones that can be found in the woods on Zachariah's manor; for the most part, they've been passing ones that are scrawny and spindly, most leaves turning brown, even though it's just past the start of the Ninth Month. It's becoming clear that they're leaving behind the noble land of Heaven, and so it's no surprise to Castiel when a wooden-staked sign appears in the distance.

Dean cranes his head halfway out of the carriage window, narrowly avoiding smacking it upon some of those low-hanging branches. "What's that?"

"If I'm not mistaken, I believe that's our official introduction to Earth." Balthazar slows the horses as they get nearer, and it soon becomes clear that he's right. The sign is clearly homemade; hewn roughly from wood that gives Castiel several splinters just from looking at it. In large, shaky letters written in faded ink, it says, _Welcum too Earth. Bring beer._

Beneath it, someone has drawn a flask of beer; next to that is a large and probably anatomically-impossible phallus. They all stare at it in silence for a moment. The sun is just beginning to set, and it's ominous in a sort of weird, comical way. The reasonable conclusion to draw, Castiel thinks, would be that Earth consists mainly of booze and sex. He has always tried to pay little heed to the condescending whispers from Zachariah's court, but apparently they were right on that account.

"Well, I should mention that we weren't exactly on a main road," Balthazar points out unhelpfully. "I mean, there aren't even any border guards here. The rest of Earth might be a bit more… classy. If that's the thing that you go for, which I know that _you_ do, Castiel."

"I don't mind," Dean says, and to Castiel's astonishment he's grinning, like the giant penis on the sign is the funniest thing that he's seen in a long time. "Feels like coming home, to me."

That's right. He is originally from Earth, something that's easy to forget from his lack of an accent, and from his made-for-royalty blue tunic with the Crown's crest on it. Castiel is surprised that this feels like a homecoming to him, though, considering that he was only a small child the last time he was here—still at the age when all genital-based jokes should have flown entirely over his head.

But maybe that's not what it is. Maybe there is some subtle shifting to the way that the air feels here—fresher, somehow more crisp and _real_ than that of Heaven's, even though Heaven has plenty of gardens and royal acres to account for nature. Maybe the sun sets differently over the crest of the hill in the distance, the one that Castiel expects will reveal Singer's grounds as soon as they cross it. Or maybe Dean just remembers what Earth looks like in some deeply-buried, locked-away childhood recollection that's being freed by the sight of all of these skinny trees and spotty grasses.

Castiel has never been away from home long enough to know, if his rooms in Zachariah's sprawling castle can really be considered home. Although he has traveled in the past, this is the first time he has ever been out of the Kingdom. Perhaps he will look as ecstatic as Dean does when he returns there at some point in the future—but for some reason that he can't possibly explain, Castiel doubts that.

Sam's first impression of Singer's Finishing School is that it's old. Which isn't a bad thing, not necessarily. It's just that the stone towers are grizzled—which, okay, is his mind's slightly kinder way of saying _probably structurally unstable_ —and the walls of the first building that he sees seem to have moss growing in every crack. The topmost gables have crumbled tips, and he thinks that a couple of the windows are boarded up.

"Home sweet home," Meg calls from the front of the carriage. "I have to say, this almost makes Hell look good."

He snorts. Hell's got a hideous landscape outside, but in Lucifer's citadel? It's actually pretty nice. Lucifer has a particular _thing_ for beauty that Sam never really understood; the best he can guess at is that he's trying to recreate Heaven or something. Although the rest of Hell is pretty much a wasteland, within the confines of Lucifer's castle are some of the most beautiful rose gardens that Sam has ever seen. Which can probably be partially attributed to how he's never actually seen any other rose gardens, but.

In any case, Singer's isn't _that_ bad. Sam can deal with a bit of worn-out architecture if it means that he's away from Lucifer.

Hell changes into Earth with little fanfare as they move onto Singer's land. The parcel owned by the Singer family begins precisely where Hell ends. The trees on the North Hell/South Earth border are the same pathetic-looking growths that are common in Hell, and the ground is gloomy and bare of all but the most resilient piles of crabgrass. Sam knows from his reading that the parts of Singer's that border central Earth are nicer, but it's still a bit disappointing, seeing how familiar everything looks.

After about a mile of that barely-treed, unpleasantly brown landscape, the actual southern gate to Singer's appears in the distance. It's a high, metal contraption that looks rather rusted even from their distance. Large letters across the center of it spell out SINGER'S SALV_GE SCHO_L, with slightly smaller ones below it reading FOR THE ED_CATION OF YO_NG MEN. There's no sign of the missing letters. If it weren't for the figure that Sam sees in the distance, some hulking gatekeeper silhouetted by the fiery sunset, he would likely be wondering if the place was abandoned or not.

As they approach, the gatekeeper straightens up from where he's leaning against the fence, looking slightly bored. In the setting sun, Sam sees that he's on the older end of middle-aged. His skin and hair are dark, and he sports a rather impressive mustache. His clothes are looser and less formal than Sam would expect from an employee of such a highly regarded school, but the name tag that he's wearing confirms that he is, indeed, a staff member. It also states that his name is Rufus Turner.

"Name and title, please," Rufus says as Meg slows the cart down. He's holding a clipboard that must be some sort of roster.

"Sam, Future Prince of Hell, formerly of Winchester." There are a lot more titles that Meg could rattle off, but that generally suffices. And to be entirely honest, Sam has long since lost track of what his "official" names are. He doesn't think that Lucifer knows either, even though he's the one who gave most of them to Sam.

"Okay." Rufus checks something off on his clipboard. "Drive straight through. Follow the path; you'll come to the place where all of the students are congregating. Sam can be dropped off there; you can either leave at your discretion, or spend the night and be gone in the morning." He opens the gate up; it creaks and protests with an agony that makes Sam wonder how many other people have been along this way. "Enjoy your stay."

Sam says his thanks, while Meg rolls her eyes. Hellions aren't known for their etiquette, which is why Sam always tries to be polite. Pisses off everyone else something good.

Singer's Salvage School doesn't look much better from up close. If anything, the paint looks like it's a bit more peeled, it's clearer how practically every window has a at least a hairline crack, and the giant door looks like it's had an ax or five thrown at it in its time. Sam finds it all very interesting; it's nice to see something that's neither the pristine beauty of Lucifer's castle, nor the sheer ugliness of the rest of Hell.

A sea of carriages fills the slightly overgrown courtyard of Singer's. They're of all sizes and shapes. Some have tinted windows, and some don't. Most have the crest of their kingdom and then their individual manor on it. Sam is surprised to see that he's not the only one from Hell, and he says as much to Meg.

"Course you aren't. There're a couple others." She hums slightly, trying to recall their names as she guides their team of horses into the fray. "Andy something-or-other. Guy named Jake; I think you've met him a few times? He's on the taller side, very intense, cute?"

Sam rolls his eyes at her description, which could match half the guys in Hell, but he knows who she's talking about. Jake is the heir to one of the manors south of where Lucifer's citadel is, and he isn't a bad guy, actually. Not by the standards that Sam has for people from Hell.

Andy, on the other hand is… interesting. The one and only time Sam can remember him visiting the castle, it smelled like some sort of unnamable herbal substance for days. Sam hopes that whatever else happens, he doesn't end up rooming with Andy; he'll probably be thrown out for possession within a day.

"Not that large a class," Meg says, leaning back so that Sam can better hear her over the sound of horses from various lands snorting and irritatingly sizing each other up. "There's what, twelve, thirteen carriages here?"

Sam glances around the yard and realizes, with some surprise, that she's right. The carriages are large, but there aren't _that_ many of them, certainly not as many as he thought at first. Mostly it's just that the courtyard is small.

He's trying to count them, with little success (most of the carriages look alike, and there are two identical ones with twin teams of horses that are parked directly next to each other; it's really very confusing) when another rushes in at a surprisingly high speed for a carriage that's entering a parking area. It's black and very well-made; clearly, the rider comes from a rich kingdom. Two handsome gray horses pull it, driven by a younger guy who's got his head craned around.

And it's rushing at a really _high_ speed, and okay, it should be braking right about—

"Shit!" Meg swears something fierce and yanks the horses out of the way. They start and whinny, the whites of their eyes flashing out as they dance away.

The driver of the other carriage is finally aware of what's going on. He growls some of the same things as Meg as he pulls his own horses to a stop, an inch or less away from the noses of the team from Hell.

For a moment, there's complete silence in the courtyard. Even the other horses have stopped their mild bickering to turn and state at the close-call carriage crash.

Then Meg leaps off of the driver's seat and storms the two steps that it takes to reach the other carriage. "You fucking idiot! You almost _killed_ my team. Watch where you're _going_ you piece of Heaven-spawned shit."

"Meg—" Sam starts, scrambling down and attempting to placate her (although how in Hell's good name he's supposed to do that, he has no idea). And then he stops, because in all the years that he's known Meg, she's never just been one to randomly throw out insults where it pleases her. _Heaven?_

For the first time, Sam takes in the crest on the side of the carriage's doors, which are opening to let its inhabitants spill out. Sure enough, it's the distinct cross-and-halo of the kingdom to the north, along with a smaller symbol representing a kingdom that he doesn't know, some sort of cross made out of swords? But that’s not important.

What's important is the tall, glaring figure who's stepping out. The one with dirty-blond hair and green eyes that are locked furiously on Meg. Who glances at Sam, and looks away, and then looks back again with an expression of comical incredulity on them; who freezes in place, looking as immobile as Sam feels.

It's been twelve years. Sam's memories of back then are vague, outlined in fire and shadows playing off the walls of cramped inns, and they only return to him when he's having a very bad night sleeping. But a decade-and-some of separation or not, Sam would know that face anywhere.

"Dean?"

 

  
  


Dean has heard the expression "It was like time stopped" before, and he's always thought that it was a really stupid expression. He doesn't go for all of that poetic shit; he goes for the literal stuff, and literally? Time. Doesn't. Stop.

Except now, as he's staring at the figure in front of him—gangly, floppy brown hair, looks like he's going to end up tall once he gets out of that awkward-colt phase—he is fairly certain that time has, indeed, stopped. Because every little fiber of him is focused on taking in his brother, from whom he's been separated twelve years.

The courtyard seems very silent, although maybe that's just the blood rushing in his head. Which would just be stupid, because excuse me, Dean Winchester does _not_ get struck silent. No. He shakes his head, forcing himself to clear his mind. Somehow, he finds it in him to say, "Yeah. Dean. That's me… Sam?"

The kid across from him nods, and suddenly it's like they're actors in a play who have been told to lurch forward at exactly the same moment into a perfectly choreographed embrace, because that's kind of what happens. Sam feels sharp and boney beneath the brick-red tunic that he wears, but there's enough strength in his grasp for Dean to imagine him being muscular one day. He's nothing like the baby that Dean once carried from a burning castle, but at the same time, he _is_ , because he's Dean's brother and that's all that matters.

"It's been so long," Sam mutters into his shirt. Dean isn't sure, but he thinks that he might be crying. Which, okay, he can kind of forgive at the moment, because he's tearing up _just_ a bit.

It's a few hours/days/maybe about a minute before time begins again. Which it does with a gruff, "Someone wanna tell me what's going on here?" that comes from a faceless speaker somewhere behind Dean.

He and Sam let go and step back in unison. They're both blushing red as the rotten tomatoes Dean frequently snuck into Michael's chambers, and Dean is suddenly acutely aware of how many people are watching them. From the corner of his eye, he notes how Castiel seems to be smiling faintly, and how Balthazar looks mildly amused. The other people around, his classmates for the next year, have all quickly turned around, so he can't read they're expressions. He's pretty sure that they're silently judging him, though, and so he glares at their turned backs.

"Not too often we have tearful reunions around here," the same gruff voice says, and Dean realizes who it is that's speaking: a balding man wearing a wrinkled suit; Dean had originally taken him to be the courier of one of the other students. Before he can try to figure out who he is, or why that voice sounds so familiar, the man continues. "I'm going to go 'head and guess that you," and he nods at Sam, "are Sam of Winchester, and you," at Dean, "are Dean."

"Good guess," Dean says, nodding at the man. "'Fraid you have the advantage on me, though."

The old man cracks a grin, which makes his face look several years younger. A memory tingles in the back of Dean's head, some long-forgotten day in the Winchester castle before the fire. A man with his father in the great dining hall, laughing boisterously with him, a man who swung Dean up and sat him on his lap, and let him really be part of the conversation.

"Bobby?" Dean says, right at the same time that the man says, "Bobby Singer. Headmaster of the grand ol' school you boys are heading into."

"Holy shit." Dean shakes his head. "It's been a really long time, hasn't it?"

"No kidding." Bobby looks at him for a moment longer, and then his mouth curls up again in that same smile. "Good to see you, kid. And you too, Sam." He tilts his head at Sam, who's looking pretty confused at the moment. It doesn't surprise Dean that he doesn't remember Uncle Bobby, their father's best friend growing up. "Now, I ain't one to play favorites from my students, but if you boys want to come down to my office tomorrow night, I think we've got a hell of a lot of catching up to do."

"I'll be there," Dean says, and Sam quickly follows up with his assent, although he probably doesn't even know who exactly he's going with. He's daring, Dean figures. That's good. He wants his younger brother to be kick-ass.

Bobby nods at both of them. "Tomorrow it is." And then, before either of them can respond, he steps up into the courtyard's approximate center and yells, "All right, listen up! High time we start into the castle. Drivers, accompany your carriages into the barn. You'll be provided with arrangements down there. Students, follow me; you can eat and then get your rooming assignments. Questions?"

There are none, and so the gruff old headmaster turns on his heel, tossing a quick, "Follow me!" back at the crowd of royal youngsters.

Dean turns to Sam and raises an eyebrow. "Guess we should follow him, then."

  
Singer's Finishing School has a rather…decrepit look about it, for lack of a better term. Castiel notes the gray webs that adorn the high corners of the walls, the dust that seems to coat the cobbled floors as they walk inside the entrance hall. It isn't entirely unpleasant; no, Castiel can bring himself to get used to just about anything. Zachariah's castle was always just a convenience to him; if anything, it was _too_ rich for Castiel's tastes. Singer's has a much more Earthly style of décor: namely in that it really doesn't look like much, but at the same time, Castiel gets the impression that it is entirely serviceable. In any case, it's far nicer than the "Welcum to Earth" sign implied, so he isn't going to complain.

He trails after Dean as they head to the dining hall; he doesn't see anyone else that he knows, and he doesn't think that Dean minds, anyway. Castiel doesn't interrupt the low flood of conversation that's occurring between him and his newly-met brother. Sam Winchester, Heir to Hell. They're quick to make up for lost time, he notes. It doesn't seem like the animosity between Michael and Lucifer has bothered them at all.

The dining hall is right off of the entrance hall, and is a large, circular room. One table stretches its length; the teachers must either dine at the table, or else take supper on their own. Castiel is somewhat surprised at this. He has expected a more… formal education; Zachariah had always made it sound as though Singer's were a deeply serious place, one filled entirely with learning, with no riffraff to be had whatsoever. Perhaps the man who spoke to Dean, who identified himself as the headmaster despite his casual appearance, has made some changes since Zach was a student.

Castiel snags a seat next to Dean as they take their places upon the long wooden bench. Dean finally takes notice of him. He grins widely, seemingly more energized even than he was when he flaunted his insubordination before Michael. "Cas! I was wondering where you'd gone off to. Castiel, this is my brother, Sam." He nods at the gangly young man sitting next to him, who smiles at Castiel with just a hint of reservation. "Sam, this is Castiel. He's from Heaven, but he's supposed to marry Dick Roman. He's going to be my roommate."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sam." Castiel extends his hand to Sam, hoping that the gesture isn't too informal. Sam technically outranks him, seeing as he's set to own a whole land, while Castiel is supposed to go off and be the husband of some foreign lord. But Sam shakes it with a firm, confident grip, and so Castiel figures that he's okay.

"Good to meet you, Castiel. You're getting married to Dick Roman?" Sam raises his eyebrows, sipping from the stein of ice-cold water that's set at every place, alongside slightly tarnished silverware and cream-colored cloth napkins. "No offense, but I'm sorry to hear that."

He hasn't known either of the Winchesters for long, but it seems that they have a common talent for saying exactly what they mean, regardless of whether or not it is strictly appropriate to do so. "I suppose I am, too." Castiel makes the snap decision to venture something more personal and adds, "I only learned of it a day ago. I haven't really had time to contemplate it."

"You only learned a day ago?" Dean raises his eyebrow, swinging from his stein like it's beer that he's drinking, not vaguely-clouded water. "That _sucks_. So you're just being happy and single or with Balthazar or whatever, and suddenly Zachariah tells you that you're getting married?" He shakes his head. "That guy's a real douchebag."

Before Castiel can figure out whether or not he should agree and be honest, or politely defend Zach, as is _proper_ to do, Dean has turned back to his brother. "Zachariah, man. Let me tell you what a _douche_ he is…"

And Dean is off, telling some story that involves talks of destiny and outright bribery to Sam, who's nodding along and looking genuinely interested. Castiel sits back and observes the crowd, perfectly happy to be on the outside of Dean and his brother. It would probably be unwise to form a close relationship, anyway, seeing as he'll soon be off to marry Dick Roman. Castiel resolves to retain a courteous but proper distance between himself and the two Winchester boys.

The meal that's brought out is… a surprise, to say the least. Growing up as he did, Castiel has always eaten foods of the more luxuriant sort. He's well aware of how the constant supply of good meat, fresh vegetables, and rich creams didn't necessarily reflect the status of lives everywhere else.

Still, the… _thing_ on his plate is rather strange. A disc-shaped object sitting on a plain white bun. Castiel assumes that it's some form of meat, since it smells like that, and more or less looks the part. Except for how no meat is naturally sliced like that. He picks it up hesitantly, warily looking at it from all angles.

Dean, however, holds no such reservations. "They give us _burgers_ here? Shit, I love this place already." He picks up the foodstuff and takes a giant bite out of it. A small stream of oil is squeezed out of it, and it makes a slick golden trail as it goes down Dean's chin. He doesn't seem to care. "I had to bribe Michael's cooks to even make me these. So much better than all the quail's eggs and liver paste and all the other rich crap he kept forcing on me."

The words aren't directed particularly to Castiel; if anything, they were probably said for the benefit of his brother. But Castiel decides that if Dean can do it, than there's no reason why Castiel should be so suspicious. He leans forward, takes a bite, and—

Oh, _God_ , that tastes _good_. All juicy with the amazingly rich flavor of beef that's been mixed with just the right, delicate combination of herbs, and then shaped into a fat patty and fried up. Castiel thinks his eyes roll back in his head. Never had he tasted anything like this back in Heaven; it must be some form of Earth delicacy.

He notices Dean looking at him, grinning, and feels a blush creep up over his cheeks. Swallowing, he says, a touch defensively, "It is very good."

"No kidding." Dean shakes his head, licking his lips in a way that's almost salacious. "You never tried that before?"

Before he can explain to Dean Zachariah's low opinion on Earthly food, there's the sound of a spoon clinking against thick glass. The hall falls silent, and all eyes turn to the head of the table. Bobby Singer, head of the school, and apparently an old acquaintance of Dean's, is standing there.

"Glad to have your attention," he says gruffly. "Those of you who don't know, I'm Robert Singer, head of the house here. You can call me Bobby, or Mr. Singer; whatever suits your fancy. I ain't one for giving speeches, so I'll just say this: a Singer's education will get you what you put into it. You want to learn about being a decent ruler, you've come to the right place. You want to get drunk at the tavern down the street and come in late to classes every day, then you're damn well welcome to do so. Just don't expect me to cry when you're denied graduation."

He gives them a minute to let that rather… blunt piece of advice sink in. Castiel thinks that he seems like a rather pragmatic man overall; rather down to Earth, as the expression goes. It's a quality that he respects. "When you're done with your grub, you can come up here to get yer schedules and your rooming arrangements. Small class this year means that a lot of you will be bumping into the same people over and over again, or else, you've got a lot of one-on-one time with our esteemed staff. Try to make friends; you're not gonna be happy campers if you hate your classmates. Rooms are on the top floor, right up that staircase that you saw in the grand hall; classes are all over. You'll find 'em eventually." Bobby Singer pauses, his gaze sweeping the length of the dining area. Castiel feels like he's being sized up, and automatically sits up straighter. "And that's all for now. Get back to eating."

And maybe it would take longer under circumstances, but because they're a crowd of mostly teenage boys, no one bothers to spend too long contemplating his words. The hall is filled almost instantly with the sound of people devouring burgers.

Castiel is done with his, as well as with the crunchy, fried rings of onions that was served with them, quicker than anyone else. For a moment he contemplates staying down here and just observing his classmates, perhaps listen in a bit more to what Dean has to say to his brother, but then he chastises himself. He's not supposed to care about Dean. He's supposed to further his education, get married, and be good and obedient.

Still, for the sake of comradeship, he turns to Dean and says, hoping that he isn't interrupting some emotional moment between him and Sam, "Dean, I believe I've finished with my meal. I am going to go and find our rooms, and get myself settled in."

"Okay, Cas." Dean smiles, looking genuinely happy to be talking to him, and for some reason, Castiel's heart jumps in his chest, and he thinks absurdly that keeping himself apathetic is going to be easier said than done. "If we get bunk beds, I want the top."

For a moment, Castiel thinks that he misheard him, and he said that he wanted _to_ —never mind. He realizes his mistake in time to avoid looking too much like a slack-jawed village idiot. "I'll be sure to respect that," he assures him. "Prince Sam, it was nice to meet you."

"Just call me Sam. And it was good to meet you too, Cas." The heir to Hell smiles at him, which isn't something that Castiel ever expected would be happening. Nor did he ever expect that he would acquire the nickname _Cas_ , but okay. He'll just go along with that. He's only going to be here for a year, after all, and then it's off to Purgatory-by-the-Sea to be married.

He just as to get out of here while going along with everything that Zachariah expects of him. Without blushing every time that he sees his roommate. And without caring too much about Dean, or his seemingly-kind brother.

It's probably easier said than done, but Castiel is decidedly _not_ one to back down from a challenge.                           

  


  
Dean and Sam talk long after they're done eating. Actually, it doesn't escape Sam's notice that they're still sitting together, heads bent close to grasp the other's every word, long after everyone _else_ is done eating, too. In fact, they're the last two people sitting at the long dining table, including the teachers. Neither of them is bothered by this.

"You know, you boys got to get on up to your rooms." They both start at the voice; Bobby Singer apparently moves with more stealth than one would expect for a man of his years. However many years that might be. Sam isn't sure; Bobby is still a mystery to him, one of the many things buried under all of the other memories that he's acquired since he was four years old. He places two pieces of parchment in front of Sam and Dean. A quick glance down tells Sam that he's looking at his schedule. "It's past midnight."

"Is it? Damn." Dean stands, looking regretful; Sam follows suit. "Sure doesn't feel like it."

"You're gonna feel it when you get up at first bell tomorrow," Bobby replies, in a way that's not entirely unkind. "Run on up to bed. There's gonna be plenty of time for you to get caught up later."

"I guess so." Dean nods at the man. "Thanks, Un—thanks, Mr. Singer."

"Bobby to you. _Both_ of you." He inclines his chin at Sam, who repeats the gesture, although he really doesn't know why. "We'll talk at length tomorrow, got that?"

"Sure do. G'night, Bobby. C'mon, Sammy" Dean encircles Sam's wrist and pulls him along. It's a protective sort of gesture that would usually incite his independent teenage ire, but coming from the older brother that he's been missing for over a decade, it's kind of nice. So is the nickname, even though it would normally piss him off something good. "Where are you staying? Near me and Cas?"

It turns out that there isn't really any option other than "Near Dean and Cas," because all of the rooms are off of one hallway that isn't particularly long. Dean hovers near him as he approaches the closed door. "You going to be okay? You're sure the guy you're rooming with isn't an ass or something?"

"Well, he's not the _bad_ kind of ass." Sam, in all of his grand luck, had pulled Andy as a roommate. His clothes are absolutely going to _reek_ in a fortnight. "He just kind of…smokes a lot."

Dean snorts as they stand outside the tall wooden door with the number _66_ upon it in shiny brass letters (Sam's not sure how the numbering works here, considering that _66_ is smack between _58_ and _83_ ). "He gives you any trouble, you just let me know, all right?"

"Okay," Sam agrees, and it's surprisingly easy to do that: to accept that Dean is someone who is entirely willing to care and to protect him, and as much as Sam normally fights The Man in order for him to maintain proper independence, it's okay now because Dean is his _brother_. That's what brothers _do_.

Sam's knuckles have barely left the heavy wood when the door swings inwards. He almost falls into the room, although chances are that the grinning, blond figure behind it would catch him. "Sam! Good to see you, man." Andy pulls him forward into an exceedingly uncomfortable one-armed Man Hug. "I can't believe we're roomies!"

"Yeah, it's pretty… unexpected." Sam manages to wriggle his way out. He throws a pleading glance to Dean, who looks a bit more…amused than he does protective. A thought occurs to Sam, and he asks Andy, "Hey, is your brother here? I thought you'd be rooming with him."

"Ansem? He's here all right, but man, I am _not_ boarding with him." Andy shakes his head vehemently. "He'd kill me in my sleep just so he could get full rights to the throne."

Okay, that's probably true. A and A come from one of Hell's older families, one of the kingdoms that was going strong down there before the exiled Lucifer united them all. The competition between the two brothers for full rule of the throne would probably be legendary, if Andy weren't perfectly happy to just hand it over to Ansem and go flying off on his merry, high way.

"Hey, who's this?" Andy peers out the door, a dopey grin on his face. "We having a three-way arrangement? 'Cause there's only two beds here."

Dean steps forward, peering past Andy. "I'm Dean."

"No way!" Andy steps back, letting them see how Sam's room has already begun to descend into a pile of illicit tools for smoking illicit things. "Sam's _brother_? Holy shit!"

"Yeah." Dean nods. From the way that he's smirking, Sam gets the idea that he likes Andy. "Good to meet you, Andy."

"No kidding, man." Andy extends his hand, and they exchange a vigorous shake. "Wow. I'm gonna be really nice to Sam now."

"Good." Dean drops his hand and steps away. He claps Sam's shoulder as he says, "So I'm gonna go and make sure that Cas hasn't gotten himself into too much trouble, but if you need anything, I'm right down the hall. Okay?"

"Okay," Sam replies. He takes one last breath of more-or-less fresh air before he steps into the dorm room that's to be his home for the next year. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Of course you will." Dean grins at him a final time, and then turns to go down the hallway. "Good night, Sammy."

And Sam smiles and says, "Night, Dean."

  


  
Dean opens the door to his own room as quietly as he can, figuring that Castiel will probably be sleeping by now. One glance inside proves him correct: Castiel lies sprawled on the bed to the right, asleep on his back with his mouth open just so.

It's a small, rectangular room, probably a fifth of the size of Dean's personal chamber back in Heaven. Two beds flank the sides, with a series of shelves above each. There's one closet for the two of them at the foot of Dean's bed, and one desk, with a window right above it. It's small, but Dean thinks he can deal. The only thing that disappoints him is the unfortunate lack of bunk beds.

He sits down on his own mattress, covered with starchy white sheets. His limbs suddenly feel heavy and tired. It's hard to imagine that only hours before he was with Michael, doing everything short of flipping him off.

Dean collapses into bed. He doesn't have time to reflect on his new school, his not-unattractive roommate, or, most importantly, his newly-reunited little brother before he's asleep, dreaming the best goddamn dreams that he's had in a long time.

  


  
Castiel is up bright and early the next morning. Prince Dean (for, Castiel figures, if he wants to keep a proper distance, he ought to think of his roommate as his true title, by a familiar name) is still sleeping, and Castiel hasn't the heart to wake him, so he just grabs his clothes and slips out to the communal bathing chamber to rinse his mouth and change into a proper tunic.

He's set by the time that the cooks are laying out breakfast and the first bells are just ringing. He doesn't bother with the dining room, though; bypasses it to go out to the courtyard, where Balthazar is preparing to leave.

It's a clear, crisp day outside. The air smells vaguely of dew and decaying leaves, and the last trails of orange and yellow are just fading from the sky, leaving nothing but clear blue behind. Balthazar is in the center of the yard, putting the finishing touches on the harnesses of the team before he departs for Heaven.

"Cassie!" he calls, turning around as he wipes his oil-slicked hands on his dark pants. "Don't you look cheerful this morning."

Castiel orders himself to remain calm and reserved. Just as he was taught; a proper princely manner. He nods at his stable boy née lover. "Balthazar."

"Oh, please." He rolls his eyes and leans against one of the old geldings that pull the carriage. "Don't tell me you're going all _stoic_ again."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Castiel crosses his arms defensively and glares. Balthazar and the geldings both stare back impassively. One horse gives a disdainful-sounding snort.

"Of course you do. You get like this every time you're struck with the idea that you're not acting like Michael or Zachariah or any of the other old windbags in Heaven want you to." Balthazar rolls his eyes again, and then crosses the short distance between them. He places his dirty hands on Castiel's shoulders and looks straight into his eyes. "Castiel, for once, fuck _properness_ like you fuck me, okay? Don't be all miserable and pass it off as your part of your noble, martyred façade of emotionlessness in the name of Heaven. Be happy. Be eager, be excited, be pissy—just don't act like you're some sort of bizarre machine built to carry out all Heaven's will."

"I'm a prince—"

"You're a _person_. And for once, you don't have one of your higher-ups staring over your shoulders, telling you everything that you're doing wrong." He unexpectedly leans in and kisses Castiel, a rough, tongue-filled gesture. When he pulls away, he's as serious as Castiel has ever seen him before. "You are going to go out there, and you're not going to act like you're just another dick. You're going to be the Castiel that I know and love, all right? Who's a bit irritable, who doesn't really _get_ people, and who's totally crushing on that hot piece of ass that he's rooming with."

Castiel's face flares up with the heat of a thousand suns. "You are _speaking_ of the High Prince's heir—"

"I know. I'm surprised that he's so attractive, too. It sounds like a rather stodgy position." Balthazar puts a hand on his shoulder, kisses him once more, and then steps back and hops up onto the carriage. "Seriously, Cas. So you're some low-rank prince of Heaven. That doesn't _define_ you. Just forget all of that Dick Roman marriage stuff, forget all of the castles, and have a good time. For me, if not for you, okay?"

"You're incorrigible," Castiel mutters. His lips still tingle from the kiss, and his annoyance is mixed with a sense of bleak loss that seems inappropriate beneath the brightness of the day. "Will you write?"

"Oh, I don't know. I expect you'll be rather busy with your wooing of Dean." Balthazar pauses to look back at his blank expression, and then he rolls his eyes and says, "Of _course_ I'll write, Castiel. Have a little faith in me."

Castiel smiles. "I do. Goodbye, Balthazar."

"Goodbye, Cassie." He purses his lips and blows him a kiss, and then, with a flick of the reins, he and the horses are trotting back off to Heaven, leaving Castiel alone in the courtyard, not entirely sure what to do with himself.

In the end, he goes into the cafeteria, slips in next to a Dean who's talking animatedly about muffins, and gives him and his brother a wry smile. He gets a, "Morning, Cas!" from each of them, and just like that, he's seamlessly accepted into their conversation.

  


  
As it turns out, there isn't much variety to their classmates. Dean thinks that this is probably because there's about eleven or so of them in total, and they apparently all have identical schedules. Which makes sense, because the teachers around here seem like they want to spend the majority of their time drinking, not teaching classes of two stuck-up students at a time.

He and Castiel are the only representatives of Heaven at Singer's, Dean notes during their first class, when everyone is forced to state their name and title. Hell has a minor showing, with Sam, his roommate Andy and Andy's twin brother Ansem, and then some quiet guy named Jake. Save for Ansem, who glowers at everyone, none of them seem too dickish.

It's Earth that has the majority, though. Which makes sense, considering that it's really just a stretch of fractured kingdoms along the border between Heaven and Hell; they don't even have a high king to rule them all. Which is the main selling point of Michael and Lucifer's argument; apparently he and Sam dueling to the death has some balance on who controls Earth, which apparently will then leading to controlling the world. Dean isn't even touching the logic on that one.

Anyway, the guys from Earth seem like a mixed group. On the one hand, there are two guys named Ash and Garth that are hanging out together. They both seem to be cut from the same cloth as they joke around and laugh a bit too loudly. Dean imagines that they probably drink a lot on the weekends. Still, they seem friendly enough. Not like assholes or anything. He can't say the same for the stocky, well-built pair in the back, Christian and Mark. Dean recalls that he's vaguely related to them, second-cousins once removed or something. They were from his mother's side, and they're probably both either fighting for the throne, or else one of them is being married off. Probably Mark; he's fairly sure he's the little brother. Dean remembers meeting them when he was younger. He doesn't remember liking them.

But yeah, that's pretty much it. There are a couple of others—a pair of friends from Earth who, for some reason, have taken to calling themselves the "Ghostfacers"( God only knows why), and also some hard-to-remember guy whose name Dean thinks starts with an "A." But the only ones that are really interesting him right now are Sam and Castiel. He figures that other friendships would just kind of be a bonus. He isn't super drawn to any of his classmates anyway. Dean's never really been a social butterfly. Comes with growing up in a giant castle with only a bunch of old assholes from company.

"You're gonna be learning swordsmanship with me," says their instructor, a muscular guy with a grizzled face, who only gave his name as Caleb. "Most of you probably have some background in it already. I can tell you now, most of you are going to suck at it."

They're in the training arena now, a large, enclosed hall with looming stone walls and only two small windows to let in light. There are no rubber mats, and it looks like they've got real swords to work with. That, coupled with how it's their first class every day, makes Dean wonder if this isn't how they cull the weak from the strong. The fast from the slow, the lucky from the unlucky. Or maybe Bobby, who presumably made up the schedule, just has a really sick/awesome sense of humor. It's hard to tell.

"Anyone want to challenge me on that?" Caleb asks, glaring at all of them in turn. Dean automatically stands straighter. "C'mon. Got to be some of you who have some pride in your background."

No one answers. Pride is decidedly _not_ a virtue among the lot of them.

Caleb shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Fine. Guess I'm going to have to do this the hard way." He closes his eyes and extends a finger; all of them automatically step back, except for Castiel, who's just been standing ramrod-straight this entire time, barely blinking. Before Dean can be done contemplating that _this_ is the hard way? Really? Caleb is saying, "You! Who was your previous instructor?" and Dean realizes that oh, shit, he's probably going to watch his roommate get torn to pieces on their first day of classes.

Castiel starts at the words, and no, this isn't going to end well. Not at all. "I…" he seems to be realizing only now that everyone else is standing a full foot away. "I didn't have a formal instructor in swordsmanship, Mr. Caleb."

"Just Caleb." He frowns. "Where are you from? Cassiel, is it?"

"Castiel. I am from Heaven, from the Fourth Providence, provided over by the Honorable Lord Zachariah."

"And you were never taught how to use a sword? Pathetic." Caleb shakes his head disbelievingly, walking over to his collection of assorted blades. For something that's probably going to end the pale, wiry, bookish-looking guy in front of Dean, it's actually really impressive. All different lengths, hilt styles, and metals make up the shining weapons. Dean itches to pick one of them up and try it out; back in Heaven, Virgil, the weapon's master, had never let him use the good ones.  Dean had to resort to stealing from him more than once, just so that he could use something other than a cheap wooden training sword.

"I was never trained formally, no." Castiel speaks low and quiet, but his words carry the circumference of the arena. "But I worked on it on my own, and I was occasionally assisted by a friend, or by one of the senior members of the estate. I assure you, I can handle one."

"Can you now." Caleb sounds amused. Dean inwardly cringes. "Well, Castiel, what length would you like to try? The shorter ones, I believe, are traditional in Heaven?"

"That's correct." Castiel nods and steps forward, letting the tan leather vest he was wearing over his white shirt fall to the ground, and pushing up his sleeves as it does. "A standard-length Eden dagger, if you have one, is what I trained on."

"Eden, hey?" Caleb bends down and picks up two short, shiny knives. He hands one to Castiel, who automatically tests its weight and length in his palm. "Well, not many people can master these. The short length generally makes it inconvenient to use. Not something I'd recommend for a beginner, but if you think you can, then try to disarm me when I tell you to."

He spreads his legs wide, assuming a defensive position. His eyes are sharp and shrewd. Castiel's, on the other hand, are cool and impassive; if anything, he looks a hint irritated by the fact that he's the one stuck doing this first thing in the morning. Dean resists the urge to squeeze his eyes shut as their instructor smirks, angles his sword, and says, "Okay, Castiel. You can try no—"

"That was _awesome_!" Dean cheers as the three of them walk out of the arena, Sam on the opposite side of Cas. "Shit, Castiel, I wouldn't've thought that you could fight like that. No offense, but you kinda seem like the bookish type, you know?"

Castiel looks mildly amused at that. "As I said, I practiced on my own so that I could adequately defend myself, if the situation ever arose. Balthazar worked with me to help build up my skills on the offensive. It was merely an application of them against an already unsuspecting opponent."

"Yeah? Still." He shakes his head. "You're good, man."

"Thank you." Castiel looks genuinely pleased as he brushes a sweaty strand of hair from his forehead. "It's a useful skill to have."

"I wish I could do that," Sam says as they walk through a long hall that echoes disconcertingly, and which has a series of exceedingly unsettling gargoyles looking down at them from the top. He usually craves information, but Sam isn't sure that he wants to know the story behind them. "Alistair, Hell's weapons-master, taught me a lot about how to hurt people, but he kinda flopped on the whole defensive thing. I think he just always assumed that I would be the attacker."

"That's unfortunate. If Caleb's training isn't sufficient, perhaps I could tutor you." They're turning into their next classroom now, a large, rectangular room filled with long benches and desks. The three of them can just barely squeeze into one. Cas looks a bit squashed, and Sam and Dean are both spilling out of the ends, but they make it work. Odd, Sam thinks, how they all just met each other yesterday, but they're already willing to do this. There's a comforting sort of familiarity to it, like it's precisely what _should_ be happening. He rather likes it.

"Tutor me?" The weight of Castiel's words are just sinking in now. "Wow. Uh, yeah, that'd be pretty cool, if Caleb's stuff isn't enough. Thanks." Sam cranes his neck around to smile at Castiel. Before Dean can add his comment, though, their teacher walks in, and everyone automatically falls silent.

It's the guy who signed him and Meg in on the first day, Rufus… something. He looks slightly more put together today, although not by much. His suit is still rumpled a bit, and his tie isn't quite straight. But the whole school seems to have that old, worn-in atmosphere, so Sam figures that he fits in right along with it.

"Good morning. Name's Rufus Turner, and I'm going to be instructing you in all of the fine subjects that don't relate to your kingly duty—making sure you've all got some sort of reading skills, that you can all write, add, all that stuff. Laugh all you want," he calls to the snickering pair in the back—Sam gets the idea that it's Garth and that one with the weird hair, Ash, "but you'd be astonished by how many of our kingdoms' future leaders come in who act like they can't tell a two from a three." He shakes his head in disdain. "I'm going to have you all do a benchmark first, but first I'm going to go around and get your names and your titles. Okay?"

The class silently gives their assent, and so Rufus starts the name-telling. Sam lets himself zone out during it, having already memorized the names and the titles of all of his classmates. It wasn't that hard, really; he already knew all of the ones from Hell, and most of the Earth princes didn't have extensive titles. The only one whose name he isn't so sure of is the skinny, dour blond guy in the corner. Something with an "A," he thinks.

Most of Rufus' class is taken up with the benchmark test that he passed out, a basic exam on math, grammar conventions, and history. Sam finishes everything well within the two-hour long class. Hell wasn't a particularly fun place, and he had spent most of his time there reading. This stuff is easy for him. He ends up spending the rest of the period daydreaming about freedom, long days spent catching up with his brother (and Castiel, who seems like a really good person, and who's kickass at sword fighting, at that), and Ruby. Not necessarily in that order.

They have lunch after that, a basic, peasanty sort of soup. Sam likes it. Lucifer's food was always these completely tasteless things arranged into artistic masterpieces; he was the sort who favored presentation over actual edibility. Having something that tastes good is more meaningful to Sam than having meat paste perfectly shaped into a rose garden on his plate.

Culture and History with Bobby Singer comes next, and then Diplomacy and Interkingdom Relations, taught by one Victor Henriksen. They're interesting classes, both of them. Culture deals primarily with, well, the culture in each kingdom; Diplomacy is pretty self-explanatory as well. But they both seem useful, and Sam thinks that he's going to like them.

Their last class starts at 2:00, and is labeled only as "Misc.," with a single instruction telling them to gather in a classroom that's in the very back of the building. It's round and old, with no desks or benches upon the cracked stone floors. A man in a dark coat stands in the center, watching as they file in, and Sam does a double-take when he gets a better look at him.

"Afternoon," Crowley says, as soon as they're all inside. "Glad to see so many young and chipper faces. Name's Crowley. I'll be teaching you the fine art of keeping up appearances, which ranges from how to dress at your coronation, to dealing with damage control after your inevitable affair and/or killing comes to light."

He paces the room as he speaks, looking each of them over head-to-toe. He smirks a bit when he sees Sam there. "Now, I'd ask for your name, but unlike your other teachers, I took the time to go over my class roster, and I already know who each and every one of you are."

Crowley, first/last name unknown. Used to be the biggest black-market man on the corner, and a minor practitioner of the same arts as Azazel. Pretty powerful, from what Lucifer had let on. He had had a tense sort of friendship with the castle, having been in a rather…intimate relationship with Lilith (and oh, God, that was _not_ something that Sam wanted to picture). But he'd disappeared a few years back. Sam had never pegged him for the teaching type, but in retrospect? It makes perfect sense. Crowley is a solo bastard, from a family that didn't easily bow to Lucifer when he came in as a bratty teenager able to unite most of Hell under him with the sole power of charisma (okay, and a fuckton of gold, according to the rumors). Naturally he'd want to have a hand in shaping all of the future leaders.

His first class is spent picking apart their dressings. It's an intensely uncomfortable experience ("Really, Sam? You think that anyone will _ever_ take you seriously as an heir in tan pants and _that_ vest?") but he can't deny that Crowley's snapping observations are right for most of his classmates. They might not all be fit as rulers when they get out of Singer's, but they sure as Hell is hot will be the best-dressed of the group.

  


  
Crowley's class lets out at precisely half-past three. As far as Castiel is concerned, the remainder of the day is for getting homework done, the few assignments that they've been given—Crowley's, to not look like a group of ratty peasants the next they see him; Mr. Singer's, to have a paragraph outlining the key values with which they had been raised.

Dean, however, has highly different values. "Let's get down to the barn," he says eagerly, as soon as they've dumped their bags inside their dorm. "Sam too. Michael promised that he'd be sending his own escorts with my horse; I want to see if she's arrived yet."

Castiel is decidedly _not_ a horse person. Horses are large, loud beasts that defecate as they walk and would soon throw you from their backs as they would nuzzle you with slobbery tongues. The riding lessons that Zachariah forced him into were some of his most miserable days at the castle. Falconry, the partnership between ground-bound beings like him and the masters of the sky, is far more up his alley.

But if Dean enjoys it—well, okay, Castiel will consider making an exception. Even if he can't tell a trot from a canter any more. "Very well. I mean, of course I'd like to go with you." He stands from where he'd taken a brief respite, sitting down on his bed. "You have a mare?"

Dean bounds to the door. He's a bit like an excited puppy, Castiel thinks. Except, he was never a dog person either, and he rather likes Dean. "Yeah. Let's get Sam, and I'll tell you all about her."

As the three of them trod down to Singer's expansive stables (there are riding grounds that stretch from the Heaven border to the very lip of Hell) Dean tells the story of his mare and her impressive heritage. "You probably don't remember Chevy," he says to Sam, looking at his brother with a sideways glance. "First horse I rode on, though. I mean, generally you're not supposed to put a four-year-old kid on the back of a warhorse, but Dad knew what he was doing. Never fell off then, and I've barely hit the ground since."

His eyes acquire a faraway look. For the first time, Castiel sees his serious side, the one that's contemplative and miles deeper than the excitable—puppy-like—front that he's been putting up. "Man, sometimes I wish that was what I could always do. Just take Impala and _ride_ , as far away from Michael and all of his Heavenly prophecy shit as I can get, you know? Just me an' her and the open trails… hunting, maybe. I like hunting."

For a moment, they're silent, Dean's unexpected seriousness blanketing them all. Then Sam says, "You know, that sounds nice. Maybe. I mean, I always kind of just wanted to go and get settles with a wife or something, get a good, decent job that doesn't involve having to rule over every jerk in Hell, but I suppose I could go for riding along the open trails too."

Dean grins and slings an arm around Sam's shoulder. "That's my bro, Sammy. What about you, Cas? What's your secret dream?"

"I don't think I have one," he admits. "I never contemplated doing anything other than what was expected of me. My future has always been whatever Michael chose to arrange for me."

"Don't talk like that." Dean shakes his head as he reaches up his other arm and unexpectedly pulls Cas into a one-armed shoulder sort of hug. "Michael's an ass. You're not. You're saying that you never once thought of, like, going off with Balthazar or something?"

He stumbles as he snorts at the absurdity of that. "Balthazar? Oh, no. It wasn't like that between us. I mean, he was my friend, of course, and I'm not denying that we—that there was a more _physical_ side to our friendship, but we never had that sort of emotional connection. No, I never considered running away with him."

Which wasn't to say that Balthazar hadn't joked about it during many of the cigar-smoke filled aftermaths of their times spent having sex. But all of his ludicrous ideas of stealing a carriage in the middle of the night and going north and out beyond the known Realms of Heaven were made entirely in jest. As seriously as Balthazar had urged him away from Michael, neither of them had held a moment's worth of illusion as to the proper nature of their relationship.

"Still. There's so much more out there than getting hitched to Dick Roman, or whatever other crappy plan Michael might have made for you. Think about it, Cas. If you could escape all that crap, what would you do? What do you want? Because you never know, there's a damn good chance that you might be able to get it. Impala!"

Dean's arms are abruptly taken away from Castiel and Sam's necks. "That's my baby," he says proudly, of a pure black mare with a flowing mane and tail, who stands tall and proud in a paddock not too far ahead of them. "Come on. I'll make the introductions!"

He takes off at the fastest pace appropriate for a place filled with giant, easily-spooked monsters. Castiel trails after him, a short way behind Sam, brooding on his words. _What do you want_?

Absurdly enough, and because he's a quasi-romantic asshole who somehow manages to get crushes in under a day, Castiel finds himself thinking, _I want you_. _I would follow you and your horse, if you asked me to; I would leave Heaven, Michael, Zachariah, and everyone else, if you just said the word, Dean._

Then, because he has some pride left and actually isn't really into romance (sentimentality makes him extremely uncomfortable) he destroys the thought quicker than he disarmed Caleb that morning. Dean is physically attractive, that's all. It's just a crush on his soft-looking hair, and his tanned skin, and what are probably incredibly tight abs. That's it.

Still, as he sees Dean grin as his mare moves to greet him, he can't help but think that maybe there's something more than that going on. Castiel is getting the sinking feeling that okay, he might be in trouble here.

  


  
Impala is as happy to see Dean as ever, and as he strokes the nose that she shoves down in greeting, he does his best to hide his pounding heart, to not show the relief that's coursing through his veins. He hasn't realized how damn much he had missed her, even though it's only been a day since he came here.

She takes instantly to Castiel and to Sam, even though Castiel seems a bit…reserved as she blows a raspberry all over him. He's probably not a horse person, Dean reasons. That's cool. He can fix that.

The three of them end up staying out there in the paddocks until it's dinner time, reveling in the joys of being alive and away from their separate tyrannical rulers (although Castiel doesn't say as much, or bother to join in his and Sam's badmouthing of Mike and Lucy, Dean is fairly sure that he's thinking about how awesome it is to be away from Zachariah the Giant Dick). The air is crisp with the scent of autumn, and in the distance, trees grown with more vigor than the spindly shrubs they passed on the way here are blooming in red and gold. Altogether, Dean feels better than he has in a very long time, giddy and just overcome with the idea that for the first time, his dream of getting away from Michael might actually happen.

All too soon, though, he and Sam and Cas have finished supper, and it becomes time for Sam and he to go to visit Bobby Singer, filling the promise that they made before. "Gonna be doing those assignments?" Dean says to Castiel as he prepares to meet the headmaster. He's straightening out his vest, hoping that he looks presentable. "I'll probably do them at breakfast."

Castiel glances at him with dark eyes; he's sitting at the desk, with his papers all sprawled across the surface. "You're not preparing yourself for success here."

Dean snorts. "Don't worry about it, Cas. I've got the charm to back it up." He runs a hand through his hair and decides that he's presentable; he doesn't think that Bobby is going to be looking too closely, anyway. "I'll see you later. Or not; you'll probably be in bed by then."

"Probably," he agrees. "Goodbye, Dean."

"Bye, Cas." Dean steps out into the hallway, almost colliding with Sam. "Ready, Sammy?"

Sam smiles, wide and genuine. For someone raised in Hell, he's quite the optimist. "Yep."

They walk most of the way to Bobby's office in a companionable silence. Dean usually hates silence, mainly because Michael loved it. As far as he's concerned, that alone is enough to completely warrant loathing of it. But when it's between him and Sam, it's okay. It's cool. They have a shit-ton of things to catch up on, but they missed on so many of these _quiet_ , brotherly moments too, that Dean is willing to take whatever he can get.

Bobby's office is opposite the classroom where Crowley systematically insulted each and every one of their appearances. It's a foreboding-looking area, the intimidatingly-tall chestnut door looming up over them, cobwebs stretching in its corners.  A grand iron knocker sits in its center; Dean shrugs, picks it up, and lets it fall back down against the dark wood.

The ring of metal-on-wood hasn't yet stopped sounding when the door flies open, and Bobby is standing there. "Took you boys long enough," he says by way of greeting. "Come on in."

The office is small—or maybe it's large; the books that are spilling everywhere make it hard to get the distinction. They look ancient, most of them, like the pages are about to crumble just under the weight of Dean's glance. Two worn chairs lined with plush red velvet are posed before an intimidatingly large desk. Bobby sits on the throne-like seat behind it and gestures for them to sit down; they obey. He takes a swig from a flask posed on his desk; wipes his whiskers when he's done. Dean thinks he caught the whiff of something strong, but he doesn't ask.

"Whiskey," Bobby says anyway. "Good stuff. Not for you; you're too young." He raises an eyebrow. "Course, I'm sure none of you precious flowers would ever think of bringing booze onto my campus, right?"

"Course not," Dean says easily, leaning back against the musty-smelling velvet. "It's good to see you again, Bobby. Have to admit, I'd pretty much forgotten all about you. I never even made the connection between Uncle Bobby and the dude who owns this place."

"Well, we're one and the same." Bobby steeples his fingers, studying them both intently. Dean and Sam are both quiet under his scrutiny until he finally says, "Yeah, I can see John and Mary in you. More of John in you," he adds to Sam. "You've definitely got his face. And you've got your mother's eyes, Dean. But I can see where you two came from, definitely."

"I don't think I know you," Sam finally says. "I mean, I know you're Robert Singer. I know your family's owned this place since before Earth or Heaven was founded. But I don't how you and Dean know, or any of that."

Bobby nods. "I'm not surprised. You were just a babe when the fire happened—cute baby, too." His eyes fucking _twinkle_ , something that Dean had only previously thought was some sort of weird-ass figure of speech. It's certainly unexpected coming from Bobby and the gruff front that he puts up, although Dean does remember how he always used to slip him chocolates and little lemon candies when his parents weren't looking.

"I was your dad's best friend. We grew up, went to Singer's together—him for training to rule over Winchester, me 'cause my parents only trusted their teachers to prepare me for owning the place." Bobby shakes his head as he reminisces. "Best man when your dad got married. Hell, I was there when he met Mary, when she was just a student at Harvelle's. Parents arranged the marriage a year later. Happiest I've ever seen him."

He smiles gently. "They were good people, your mom and dad. Some of the best I've met."

"Yeah, they were." Dean stares at the cold stone floor. He remembers them sometimes, in bits and pieces of his mother's blonde hair and easy laugh, and his father's deep voice and strong arms, lifting him onto the back of Chevy and going for a ride with him.

Damn Azazel, for making that damn prophecy. Damn Michael, for taking him away from Earth. As long as Dean lives, he's never going to get those years back, and he's never going to get his parents back. There's no excuse for that, and there's no way he'll ever forgive the bastards who made that happen.

"I want to get away," he says suddenly, and without knowing why, he's suddenly locked gazes with Bobby, finds himself leaning forward, gripping the hard arms of the chair that he's in. The energy that he's been running on ever since he joined up with Castiel is being channeled into a fine, sharp point: the quill with which he can and will write his own damn destiny. "Can you do that? Send me away from Michael, Heaven, and all that crap?"

Bobby smirks and leans back. "Dean, I wouldn't have called you and your brother down here if I couldn’t."

 

  
  


Sam goes to bed that night with his head buzzing like a hive full of contemplative bees. _Escape_. An actual chance to get away from Lucifer, a chance to be able to go off and not have to rule Hell? Sam could go for that, he thinks.

"Now, I can't do anything now," Bobby had quickly said as he and Dean had both perked up at his tantalizing hint. "You're gonna have to finish out the year; if I lost two students, my reputation would be down the crapper. But when it's all done… we could arrange something. I got a few friends out there who can create new identities, a few old families here in Earth who could give you two shelter while you figure out what you wanna do with your lives.

"Course, it's risky business." Bobby had raised his eyes and drunk from his flask when he said that; he was the first teacher Sam has ever heard of who is so inconspicuous with his drinking. It's…interesting, to say the least. Sam was fairly certain right around that moment that he liked him. "I'm not going to go out and say that there's anything definite; I didn't even know if you two would want that. But your dad was my friend, and I figured that I owed it to him to see if I could get you away from the jerks who kidnapped you."

"How would it work?" That was Dean, thinking a lot more coherently than Sam, who was just kind of overcome with the idea that shit, this could really happen. He might never have to go back to the sulfurous wasteland of Hell again. "Like, when could we go?"

"After you graduated. Like I said, I ain't about to go out and lose some students on my watch. But it's possible that right after you received your certificates proclaiming you ready for princehood, some things could… happen." Bobby raised two furry eyebrows. "Accidents. Few princes could disappear in the meantime, if you get my drift."

"You'd make it look like we arranged it." Dean frowned for a minute, and then grinned. "Fair enough. That _does_ sound like something I'd do. Hell, if you can arrange to frame us, I'm all for it. Sam?"

Sam had started at his name, and then quickly, without thinking, given his assent. Yeah, he'd like to run away from everything he'd ever known, with a brother he'd just met—and, okay, to whom he was already pretty damn dedicated to. Because he was Dean, and he was Sam's brother. And family means everything. Sam knows this instinctively, like it was drilled into him before Lucifer kidnapped him—maybe it was, and it only left a mark in his subconscious; he doesn't know. All he _does_ know is that by summertime, he's going to be running away from destiny with his brother by his side.

And possibly Castiel, because Dean had mentioned that to Bobby, if he'd be willing to throw a roommate with a shitty marriage into the deal; since they were already pissing on the plans of Mikey and Lucifer, they might as well throw in Dick Roman and complete their triad of asswads, right?

Bobby had shrugged and said why the Hell not; if they didn't mind having a non-family member along for the ride, he could probably talk with his friends and get providence for three. "Be a bit more cramped, since you're not exactly gonna be living in luxury suites if you wanna avoid being captured, but if you're willing, I can try."

He and Dean had both agreed that indeed, such a thing would be awesome. Then there had been pleasantries, and now Sam is lying in his bed under soft cotton sheets that have already soaked in the smell of every herbal substance Andy has imbibed, and he's beginning to wonder if he made the right decision.

Which is probably very silly. He has, he totally, totally, has. Dean is his brother, and going on the road with him, running underground to avoid Michael and Lucifer feels _right_ , like this is the destiny that he was made for, not that "fighting your brother" crap.

But at the same time, now that it's just him and his head and the relative quiet (Andy's openmouthed snoring prevents it from being actual, total silence, unfortunately) he can't help but think of Hell. And Ruby. Sam had liked Ruby. A lot. Ruby's laugh, and Ruby's teasing, her dark, smooth hair and almost-black eyes. Her power, which practically flowed from her as she trained with Lilith. There was something seductive to her, something savory and addictive. He realizes now that going with Dean means giving that up, never reuniting with her after she's finished her training, and can—can—

Sam grits his teeth and turns over so that his face is squished against his pillow. His brother or an amazing, fantastic girl who's from Hell and who's kind of evil, but who Sam really, really likes?

Stupid question for most people, probably. Family first, and all of that amazing stuff that he never grew up with. Unfortunately, though, Sam is a sixteen-year-old boy with a good dose of angst and an ever better dose of hormones.

He doesn't _plan_ on backing down on Dean, not at all. But as he lies there in bed, he feels the first itchings of doubt coming onto him like scratchy mosquito bites on his heart, and he has to force himself to not picture Ruby's laughing eyes. Just so he knows that yes, he is going to run off, and no, he's not going to let himself be tempted away by the memory of a girl who was never even really his girlfriend. He's better than that. He thinks.

  


  
It's several days later, and Castiel is meticulously scripting an essay on the legendary founding of Heaven. Dean is playing some sort of game that involves bouncing a balled-up pair of socks against the wall of their room. It has occurred to Castiel that Dean, for all of his virtues (he _is_ intelligent; his responses in their classes have proved that, and he can be a very hard worker when it comes to the up-keeping of his horse) is not exactly what one would refer to as a serious scholar. He is a bit of a…slacker, to refer to Balthazar's slang. Or possibly he just doesn't care for an education, what with his disparaging view towards the idea of ruling.

Castiel is sneaking sidelong glances at Dean as he contemplates this (for reasons completely unrelated to the stretch of his pants along his legs as he lolls on his bed like that, facing the wall) when Dean speaks up. "By the way, I've got a way to keep you away from Dick."

"What?" He frowns, turns away to focus on his essay. Hoping that Dean didn't catch him looking. Hoping that he isn't blushing (oh, _damn_ , he most definitely is).

"Yeah, I didn't tell you?" Dean sits up, his hand a fist around the wadded-up socks. "Bobby's arranged for Sam and I to run away at graduation, once we're officially out of his care and all that. He said that we could take you along?"

Now Castiel does look at Dean, with no small degree of incredulity. Dean's face is entirely sincere, though; he genuinely believes that this can be accomplished. "That's… that's very kind of you to offer, Dean, but I don't think I can do that."

"Sure you can. You've pretty much said it yourself, Dick Roman is an asshole. You don't want to get hitched to him for the rest of your life, so…don't." Dean shrugs, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. "Me and Sam don't mind you hanging around with us, Cas. Besides, something tells me you'd be useful on the run. You and your sword-fighting skills."

Castiel's face is approximately the color of the deepest sands in Hell, the ones that are said to approximate flames more than the sulfur-yellow of most of the land. He stares down at the wood of the desk, willing the patterns in the grain to relieve it. Because that somehow makes sense. "Dean, even if such a plan were to work—and I doubt that it would; you know that the one thing that could possibly bring Michael and Lucifer together is their mutual desire to see you two duel it out—I would have no place with you two. You know what you want from life; Sam has some idea. My entire existence has been based around following what Zachariah tells me to do. I can't somehow abandon that."

"Why not? This isn't some sort of 'Can't teach an old dog new tricks' thing, is it?" 'Cause you're not that old, and I'm pretty sure that you could just walk away from Heaven. Or run," he amends, "Running would probably be involved at some point."

"It's not that easy." His voice sounds flat, even to him, and Castiel is decidedly _not_ good at reading voices. "Dean, you're talking about my life. Heaven is all that I know; I can't just completely change my nature and run away from it."

Dean stares at him, a look of disappointment clouding his features. Castiel feels irrationally guilty. Then Dean sighs and begins to throw his socks at the wall with more force than before. "Okay, Cas. If that's the way it is, I'm not gonna push. But the option's always open to you, okay?"

"Okay," Castiel agrees, knowing in the back of his mind that he'll never take it, but not having the heart to tell Dean that.

  


  
Time. Time is a strange thing, Dean's come to realize that. Back in Heaven, time dragged on day-by-day, in a series of events that were as repetitive as they were exciting on a daily basis: piss off Michael, sneak out with Impala, swordfight with Virgil, wash, rinse, repeat. Very formulaic. Fun to do, but little to no diversity to spice things up.

Here, though, time is flying like someone wound up the clocks and let the hands go shooting forward. One day he's being forced to iron his pants for Crowley; the next, teaching Sam and Castiel about how to groom Impala and keep her coat all shiny. One moment he's eating dinner with Sam while Castiel goes to converse with Bobby about the accuracy of the textbook that they're using in relation to Heaven's history (Dean didn't ask) and then he's lying sprawled out in his dorm, proofreading Castiel's essay while Cas does the same for him.

It's strange to have so much to do, to actually _want_ to attend to attend his classes, because useless as they're going to be in his future as a convict on the lam, he somehow doesn't want to let down Bobby. Dean finds that when he applies himself (which isn't too often, but) he can actually do halfway decent. He doesn't have Sam's brain for understanding everything they learn, and he lacks Castiel's weird ability for remembering the damnedest details (the first Treaty Between the Kingdoms of Hell fell apart while the leader of Abbadon was wearing a red shirt that had previously been stained during the banquet? What?) but he's good at getting the basics. And while his writing skills might not be the sharpest, and Castiel usually all but rewrites his essays, he's good in most of the other areas. Can do decent math; has a flair for sword fighting that's even gotten him praise from Caleb.

Then there's the way that things are going with Sam, how Sam's begun to confess in him things about Hell—about the girl there that he likes (but who he's willing to leave, just so that he doesn't have to fight Dean to the death), how Lucifer has some sort of rose fetish, how there's no one in Hell who wouldn't stab their own mother in the back. In return, Dean has begun to tell him stories about their parents, who Sam barely remembers. They've become brothers, solidly and irrefutably. So all things considered, he's pretty fucking happy.

He's also somewhat oblivious to the dates; while he knows that time is racing by him like Impala after she sees a snake, he doesn't have any clue as to how fast, exactly, things are going. That changes one afternoon when the trees are in the last stages of their flamboyant autumn displays, and it happens in Crowley's classroom. They've just finished going over what cut of vests can go over what sort of shirt, and how a leader wearing brown over black once started a war in Purgatory for the offense, when Crowley calls to them as they're leaving. "Oh, and just so you lot know, you're reporting to the main hall after supper tonight. Time for dancing lessons."

Everyone freezes, and then from the back, there comes a timid, "Dancing?"

"Course. We're preparing you for life outside these walls. And in life, you can't get by without knowing the basic steps."

The class remains silent, as shocked as a herd of sheep just told that they were going to slaughter. Crowley grins like the butcher that he is. "New guy's teaching it. Name of Raphael?"

Castiel and Dean let out synchronized moans of terror, although Castiel's is considerably more under his breath, and Dean's contains a few swears that Cas would never let slip. The heads of everyone in the room swivel around to look at them.

"Yes, well, it's all in preparation for the big Autumn Brigade. Two weeks from this Saturday. You know, when everyone from Harvelle's comes over, and you all have yourselves a nice little supervised mingling? Pretty girls, should please some of you." Crowley smirks. He's kind of an asshole, Dean thinks. "Now go on. Your homework's still due tomorrow; time's a-wasting and all that."

Outside, their peers crowd around Dean and Castiel, eager to hear about Raphael. They probably want their fears relieved, Dean figures, since this _is_ a completely new teacher, coupled with the already hellish idea of learning ballroom dancing.

Unfortunately, both he and Castiel kind of suck at the whole "Let's lie to spare their feelings" thing.

"He's my older brother," Castiel says, his face looking all disgruntled and sour, like he thought it would be a good idea to lick a lemon. "Half-brother, technically; my elder by some two decades."

"He was one of Michael's closer advisors. Always hanging round the castle. Kinda…" Dean swirls his finger in a loop by his temple. "I mean, super by-the-book. He actually thought that his dad was a god, and that he just disappeared into the darkness to 'ascend to a higher plane.' And he's really strict. One time, he caught me wearing my riding boots in the castle? I think he nearly smited me with his bare hands." He shakes his head, smirking at the memory now, although considering that he had been, like, eight at the time, it probably hadn't been that funny.

"Yes, he's one of the four eldest, along with Michael, Lucifer, and Gabriel. They each had their own… _unique_ ideas," Castiel mumbles, looking mildly embarrassed to be related to such asswads. "I wasn't aware that he was teaching, though. Perhaps he's gotten more lenient."

Dean nods along with that, but inside, he seriously doubts it. Once you get someone who's as big a jerk as Raphael, putting him in control of a room full of teenaged-to-young-adult guys is kind of a recipe for something bad. He gets the strong impression that this isn't going to go well.

As it turns out, he's right.

  


  
"Michael told me that I was to watch over you two," Raphael informs Dean and Castiel, glaring down at them from eyes as dark as two pits of coal-dust-filled oblivion. "He wants to make sure that you are sticking to your duties, and keeping up the good name of Heaven. _Especially_ you, Dean."

Dean stares back at Raphael, looking unimpressed. Their dance instructor is wearing heavy, dark robes that Castiel actually envies; his own outfit of a loose undershirt, vest, and pants doesn't do nearly enough to keep away the irritatingly icy chill of Singer's School. In any case, Raphael is an intimidating sight on the best of days; he radiates power like a heady perfume, and his glare is so intense that one of the lesser princes of Heaven once collapsed and spent three days sick in bed after meeting his ire. The healers had said that was actually pneumonia, but Castiel is willing to think that it was something a bit more insidious.

"You can tell Mike that he's still a dickbag," Dean says boldly and loudly. Every eye in the room falls on him. Castiel feels himself reddening, forces himself to staunch the absurd urge to bury his face in his palms and pretend that he no longer exists. "Please and thank you."

Dean turns around and strides to where the rest of the students are standing in a slack-jawed clump. He takes his position next to Sam and glares defiantly at Raphael. In turn, Raphael looks at Castiel and curls his lips up, just _staring_ with that intense glower of his.

But he doesn't say that Castiel needs to stay, so Cas just mumbles something that might be an apology and hurries to where Dean and Sam are, memorizing the pattern of tiles on the floor as he does.

An uncomfortable silence settles over them as Raphael gives each of them his deadly look. He's silent for longer than is socially acceptable (and if _Castiel_ can pick up on this not being proper, then it definitely. Is. Improper).

Finally, he says in his deep, crisp voice, "You are learning academics, politics, and how to present yourself. You are not learning how to dance, despite dancing being a vital part of most social occasions among the elite classes. I am here to change that."

He begins to stroll among them. Every footstep of his echoes like an ominous thunderclap booming out over a party of dead men. "It is expected that you know basic, single-person steps. The school here has failed to teach them to you, but your private tutors beforehand should have done such a thing. It is inexcusable for you to not understand what a point is, a toe, a tap."

Finally, Raphael stops, and swivels around to face them all. "I will pair you up. You will decide who among you will lead. Today I'll be teaching the basics of the waltz. By the end of this class, I'll expect that you've mastered them."

They don't have a long enough time to properly convey their horror through their eyes before Raphael is saying, "You, with him. You two together." Sam is forced to scurry off with the lanky-haired brother of his roommate; he throws Dean and Castiel one pleading look before he walks away. "Dean and Castiel."

Cas starts and looks at Dean, who's watching Raphael with an expression of intense damnation. He steps close to Castiel and murmurs, "Man, your family is full of dicks, but Raph is like the _head_ of them. What crawled up his ass?"

Much as Castiel is loath to speak ill about his higher-ups, he…agrees with that assessment. "He's very by-the-book," he allows.

"Yeah, if the book were a guide on how to be the biggest asshole in the land." Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "So anyway, I don't know how to dance. You?"

"I know some basic steps, but I'm not very good at them. So, no." He looks Dean in the eye, trying not to show how he thinks that Dean is, in all truth, a rather handsome guy. How in the dim light cast from the oil lamps on the wall, he practically _glows_ , some sort of fire-spirit whose energy also manifests in an aura around him. How his eyes are two pieces of jade, cut and lovingly laid into his well-chiseled face by some divine jewelry maker. Or something like that. Castiel has never been one for poetic descriptions.

"Okay." Dean nods. The light reflects off of his hair in a manner most attractive. "So which one of us should lead?"

… _oh_. That's right. Castiel could go and flagellate himself for his foolishness. This isn't going to be an hour of him subtly staring at Dean and drinking in his beauty like it's a finely aged wine (if Castiel was one for alcohol, which he isn't); this is going to be an hour dedicated to dancing, which involves handholding and chest pressing and all sorts of intimate things that Castiel is going to be supremely uncomfortable doing with a man that he's already somewhat attracted to.

"Cas?"

Oh. He should probably stop staring.

Castiel quickly looks away and studies the gray wall on the far end of the chamber, like the cracks running along its side are the most fascinating things in the known universe. "Well, you're taller than me, so traditionally speaking, it would be you."

He realizes his mistake as soon as he says it, that if he had taken the lead, he would be the one in charge of the distance between the two of them, and just how awkward things are going to be. But Dean is already agreeing with him, so he has no other option but to go along and act like it was indeed a good idea.

When Raphael's instructions begin with an exceedingly strict order to "Hold your partners close, as if they were your beloved," Castiel realizes that this is going to be a very long night.

  


  
Dean's right hand is resting on Castiel's back; his left, gripping Cas's palm. He can feel warmth seeping through the layers of clothes that his friend is wearing; it's like Castiel has a bonfire in him or something. All things considered, as he rests his hand on the suede or leather or velvet or whatever Castiel's tan vest is made of, it's not entirely unpleasant.

They're both stiff as boards, though. Dean fucking hates dancing, and apparently Castiel does too, judging by how tense his shoulders feel, like thick knots of muscle tight beneath the skin. And his hands are sweating like crazy, sticky in Dean's (which probably should gross him out, but given the amount of time he's spent in the stable, a bit of hand-sweat is nothing). Castiel's also not meeting Dean's eyes or anything, not that Dean is trying too hard to get that to happen. Dancing sucks, and when it's dancing under the supervision of one of your kingdom's biggest asswads, it's worse.

There's a giant lecture about dancing to the triple beat, and other words that probably have meanings that Dean presumably _could_ make sense of if he listened to them. He chooses not to, though, mainly on the grounds that he fucking hates this and won't be learning anything anyway.

"Dean," Castiel grits out, sounding like he's having his toenails summarily pulled out. "Start."

"Right." He glances around quickly and determines that most people are stepping to the left, and tries that out. Cas steps back with his right, and Dean frowns; is that how things are supposed to work? But he doesn't have time for speculation, because dancing doesn't really involve pausing, and suddenly Castiel is tugging him so that he's going to the right.

"It's not that hard," Cas says. For a moment, he looks at Dean in that intense way that he has, but then he goes back to finding the wall fascinating. "Just…move as the inverse to what I'm doing, all right?"

"Okay." So Dean does, relaxing and letting Castiel lead by dancing in the submissive role. And it's…it doesn't suck as much as dancing usually does. Michael's lessons involved him wearing stiffly formal clothes that he could barely move in, dancing with a series of old, exasperated men with round, red faces, and women with expressions so severe that they could probably cut sharper than any of the swords that Caleb has.

But this is different, to say the least. Castiel is shorter than him, but he's strong, and he cues Dean well. His hand is rough against Dean's, not quite as calloused as his—even sword fighting can't hold up to being in the barn on a daily basis when it comes to callous-building—and he does surprisingly well at subtly letting Dean know where to go, especially considering that Dean is the sort of guy who doesn't usually go for subtlety.

"Dean. Castiel." Raphael strides over to them, frowning. "You are dancing as though each of you is a sack full of rats, not someone with whom you are intimately familiar—or someone with whom you need to build up a vital treaty. Move together."

Castiel shifts slightly closer to Dean, not responding to Raphael.

"I expected better from you, Castiel." The dick shakes his head and, laying one hand on Castiel's shoulder and the other on Dean's (he forces himself not to violently shove him away; assaulting a teacher is a bit on the wild side, even for him) and pushes the two of them closer, until they're pressed chest-to-chest. "Begin again, like this."

Dean expects him to just turn around and move on to lecturing the next unfortunate pair. Instead, Raphael remains standing, watching them. Dick.

Their dancing is much stiffer than before, the steps less legs gliding through water and more like knives dragging through wood. Which is to say, whatever grace the two of them had is gone. Castiel is made of stone beneath his hands, and Dean thinks he can feel his heart beating against his chest. It's going really fast, and Dean is surprised to find that his is as well.

The muscles in Castiel's back shift as he moves, and Dean can feel their slight ripple of movement from where his hand is splayed. His hand tingles—probably just from the movement of the cloth beneath it, because what else could it be?

Dean risks a glance down at Castiel to see how he's doing, and is pleasantly surprised with the way that he manages to get away with it without messing up spectacularly. Castiel is staring straight ahead, his body apparently automatically going through the motions of dancing. Which could explain some of his rigidity; he's not a dancing guy, but even Dean knows that you need to throw your heart into this for you to be any good. He tries and fails to meet Castiel's eyes. For some reason, he seems distracted, staunchly looking out to the old gray of the walls.

"And _dip_ ," says Raphael, and Dean barely has time to think about that (because there's a dip? He and Cas didn't practice _dipping_ ) before Castiel is falling back. Dean's arm automatically circles around his shoulders, which feel remarkably muscular, considering how lithe Cas looks, and holy shit, they're doing it; Dean finally feels perfectly in-synch with Castiel, who—

Who kind of looks _hot_ like this, with only Dean to support him. His arms are stretched out like the wings of some giant bird, if birds could waltz, and his normally loose shirt riding up on his stomach. Castiel's head is thrown back, and his eyes are shut.

Dean is suddenly really, really glad for that.

"And come apart." Which they do, Castiel straightening up obscenely quick, his cheeks blushing red, looking anywhere but at Dean. Which is fine by Dean, because the floor is suddenly really very attractive. Hard and flat and bland. Nothing like the ridges of bones in Castiel's hand. Nothing like the movement of his shoulders, like his dark hair falling back as Dean held him, like the way that he's so preoccupied with adjusting his shirt right now.

"That was _adequate_. Perform it again until it is _good_." Raphael turns on his heel, about to walk away—but fuck no, there's no way that Dean is dancing like this, not when certain parts of his anatomy are insisting upon being severely inconvenient.

"I don't feel well," he announces. Raphael swivels around, a scowl on his face as he meets Dean's eyes. Dean refuses to look away. He's a damn good liar, if he does say so himself. "I think I'm gonna throw up from all that twirling. Can I go see the healer?"

He doesn't actually know if there is a healer here. Probably not, but Raphael is new too, so.

"Will it really impede your abilities so greatly, Prince Dean?" Raphael looks displeased, but as Dean nods and tries to look sick, he's confident that he'll let him go now. Because he is _Prince_ Dean, heir to Michael's throne, and one day he's supposed to be ruling over Raphael, after all. That's a pretty good incentive to make him not be a total dick.

"Fine." Raphael glares as he waves him off. "Castiel, practice the moves by yourself to the best of your ability."

Dean scurries out, and tries not to think about Castiel being forced to suffer this on his own.

  


  
"I still don't know how to dance," Sam grumbles to Andy as they change into their formal clothes, which are heavy, irritatingly itchy, and not at all attractive. It's been three weeks since they began their intensive lessons with Raphael. Things didn't go particularly well.

"Relax, man. There's gonna be girls there, remember? And they're probably not gonna know how to dance either anyway." Andy straightens his bowtie until it's not at quite as sharp an angle as it was before. "Just focus on the Harvelle girls. It'll be great."

"Yeah, I guess." Sam hasn't mentioned Ruby to his roommate at all, nor has he let slip the whole "Run away and live as fugitives" plan that he and Dean have. He kicks a bag of some sort of herbal substance out of the way as he reaches for his shiny black dress boots. "It kind of sucks that we wasted so much time with Raphael and didn't actually learn anything."

"That might've just been us. I mean, your brother and that Cas guy got pretty good, didn't they?" Andy runs his fingers through his hair, not bothering with an actual comb. He usually doesn't.

"That's true. Dean and Cas definitely aren't bad." More than that, they can twirl out there like pros. Dean would hate him for saying that, but it's totally true. He and Cas have got it going on when it comes to formal ballroom dancing.

"'s an understatement. You going to go and meet them?"

"Yeah." Sam gives his boot one last tug, and stands up straight. He picks his way through Andy's pile of clutter, until he's at the door. "I'll see you down there."

"Till then." Andy grins at him, and Sam responds in turn. Andy's a druggie to the last, but he's definitely not unlikeable. And he's the affable sort, which is more than can be said for nearly all the rest of his classmates.

A short walk down the cramped hall brings him to Dean and Castiel's room. Their door opens before he's finished rapping his first knock, and he nearly falls in. "You're early, Sammy."

"It doesn't take that long to get on a puffy shirt and…whatever these are." Sam picks at the skintight pants. This kind of sucks, but at least it'll be over soon.

"It takes a long time to _find_ them," Dean growls, and that's when Sam realizes that his bed is covered in garment upon garment. He's taken one trunk to look through, and Castiel, already suited up in dark pants and a shirt three different shades of blue, is kneeling in front of the other. "Fucking whoever packed this didn't know what he was fucking _doing_."

"I think these are your pants." Castiel sits up, waving a pile of tan fabric similar to what Sam is wearing. "And there are some shirts here. I don't know which one you want."

"Hallelujah." Dean grabs the pants from Cas and, turning away from him, begins to strip. Sam rolls his eyes and turns away. "And whatever. I don't care what shirt it is. Not like I'm looking for someone to impress in the long run."

"None of us are. Mostly, we're going to be granted arranged marriages regardless of whether or not we approve of our King's choice. You're meeting with women who will either be ruling or have strong influence upon lands that you'll be working with, though, so it makes sense to leave a good impression. I know what you're planning, but just in case. It's always helpful to have allies. Wear green." And with that last, not-entirely-fitting sentence, Castiel tosses a shirt the color of springtime grass at Dean, who catches it one-handed without looking up from where he's struggling to get on his form-fitting pants.

"What's in it for you?" Dean asks. His voice seems guarded to Sam, and, not for the first time, he wonders if maybe there isn't something… _else_ between Dean and Cas. It's probably his boredom and imagination, but it seems like Dean is a lot more careful when talking to Castiel, and like Castiel's reservation and stiffness of speech are turned up to a way higher degree when talking to Dean than they are for anyone else. It's hardly proof to think that they want to start something with each other, but part of him still wonders. Not that Sam would object to that; he knows how Castiel swings. It's just that Dean seems decidedly heterosexual, and okay, it's kind of weird to think about his brother having sex with _anyone_ , and it's kind of weird to think about Cas like that, just because he's his friend, and his brother and Cas is just something that he really doesn't want his mind to go right now.

"In it for me?" Castiel frowns, glances at Dean, and then immediately averts his eyes at the sight of Dean's ass still hanging out of the pants. "It's the proper thing to do. I might not be… _interested_ in any of the women there, and if you're implying that I probably won't have much sway over Dick Roman, then you're most likely correct. But it's still expected for me to behave properly and be courteous at all times, so I am."

"Fuck being courteous. Be wild, Cas. We should all cut and see if we can sneak something from Andy's stash." Dean's voice gets slightly muffled as he pulls his shirt on. "We could sneak down to the barn; I don't think that there's going to be anyone there. Come on."

"You're forgetting that the students from Harvelle's will be arriving via carriage. The barns will be very busy," Castiel replies. "And the staff would notice three of us missing. Of course, I can't stop you if you really want to do that, but I'm not going to participate."

"Nah." Dean sounds mildly disappointed. Sam's suspicion sense tingles. "Forget it. It'd probably just piss off Bobby." He runs his fingers through his hair, reminiscent of what Andy did earlier, and glances at his reflection in the mirror that's been haphazardly stuck to their closet door. Giving an approving nod he says, "Well? You all ready?"

Sam and Cas reply dutifully that yes, they are indeed ready, and then the three of them head down to the formal hall, a separate building from all of the informal halls, where the dance is set to take place.

When they get there, Sam sees that the formal hall actually _is_ a lot nicer than the rest of the school. The walls aren't quite so grey, like someone has buffed every one of the stones making up the building until they got a soft and agreeable sheen. Several tapestries hang from the walls, one for each Heaven, Hell, Earth, and Purgatory-by-the-Sea, showcasing key scenes from their histories. A fireplace at the far end blazes brightly, combining with the dozens of torches on the walls to bathe the whole place in warm golden light. Nice-looking tables are set against the walls; it's hard to say from the distance, but Sam gets the idea that they lack the scars and carvings of dicks that all the wood surfaces in the main campus have.

And yes, there are girls here, most either seated at the tables or standing in tight clusters up against the walls, talking amongst themselves. A rough estimation lets Sam know that there are more students in this class at Harvelle's than there are at Singer's. It should be an interesting night, to say the least.

Although he, Dean, and Castiel aren't the first ones to arrive, no intermingling has taken place. As clearly as if a river of flowing lava separates them, the boys are on the right, girls on the left. Glances are occasionally exchanged across this line, but feet stay very decisively within the proper boundaries. The three of them naturally follow that, none of them willing to break out and be the first, the bold, the best.

In the corner, a string quartet stands, their bows all merrily zipping away across their wooden behemoths. The music is grating and off-key, and Sam inwardly groans. This is going to be a very long evening.

  


  
Dean is miserable. Really, really miserable. It's as if he's absolutely coated in the ashes that burned in the pit from which all misery is derived.

The last few weeks have been…not so good. Not as bad as being in Heaven; Dean still likes waking up in the morning and not breathing the same air as Michael. He still likes going to classes every day with his little brother, and knowing that yeah, they're gonna get away from this.

But ever since that first dance lesson, things with Cas have changed. Sort of. He's pretty sure that Cas doesn't realize that they've changed; he's not really the type to pick up on those subtle social cues, but Dean is very, very aware. He's really aware when they're in their dorm and he can see Castiel outlined in the moonlight, face brushed with this silver glow, and he just gets the stupid urge to go over there and straddle Cas, and start kissing him until he wakes up. And of course, Cas wouldn't be at all creeped out by that. No, he'd be totally cool with it because they've done that before—

Except they totally haven't, and it would be creepy as fuck, and Dean would never, ever do that because he's not some sort of uncontrollable beast. He's just someone who kind of has dreams of the adult sort about his roommate. Someone who might have admired a few asses in his time, but who's never actually _fallen_ for a guy before. Someone who tenses up (although he hides it damn well, if he does say so himself) when a certain prince named Castiel is standing really close to him, or holding his hand during dance lessons.

…fuck it, he is Dean Winchester, and he's kind of fallen for Castiel. Who probably likes him about as much as he does an unwashed sock. In the sexual way, at least.

And now he's standing right next to Dean, looking not at all shabby in his tight, tight pants and dark blue shirt, impassively staring into the distance. Music is playing that's buzzing in Dean's head like a swarm of angry hornets. Sam is looking to where most of the Harvelle girls are still clustered together. A few of the Singer's boys have broken free and are clumsily swaying with some girls who look none too happy about the prospect, but mostly everyone has stayed within their ranks.

"She's really pretty," Sam murmurs, and then blushes. Dean grins at that, brotherly affection temporarily overtaking his miserable misery.

He scans the groups of female students clustered across the hall, most of them painted fiery shades by the numerous torches that are held by old sconces. Castiel, too, is following his gaze. "Which one?"

"Over there." Sam nods to the far left, apparently attempting to be subtle. Which is nice of him, Dean supposes.

It takes a minute, but then he's almost certain he knows who Sam's talking about. She's tall and blonde, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in perfectly-made ringlets. A long-sleeved, conservative green dress covers her body, without hiding her curves. Dean guesses that she's around Sam's age.

As if she can feel their gazes hot against her back, she turns away from the friend she was talking with, and looks directly at them. Her eyes latch onto Sam, like she somehow knows that he's the one attracted to her, and she smiles. Dean smirks as he sees Sam's cheeks turn the color of ripe cherries.

"What are you waiting for there, tiger? Go." He clasps Sam's shoulder for a brief moment, trying to transfer luck through his hand, and then he pushes his brother forward. "You can do it, Sammy!"

Sam turns around and glares at him and an amused-looking Castiel, but his feet are moving of their own volition, and it isn't long before he's crossed over the vaguely shiny grey floor and is talking to the girl. The distance prevents Dean from hearing the specifics, but he thinks that it's something along the lines of _Hi-my-name-is-Sam-let's-go-dance_. Whatever it is, it's effective: he's soon taking her hand and leading her onto the floor, arms carefully positioned in the appropriate places. Both he and she are wearing these really stupid grins. Both of them look impossibly happy.

Dean raises an eyebrow, glancing at Cas (who's looking quite fine beneath the golden light from the torches, which softens the darkness of his hair and turns his skin several shades more bronze than normal). "Looks like little Sammy's all grown up. Feel like wiping a tear from my eye."

"He looks like he's having a good time," Castiel replies. His tone is as impassive as always, but there's something to it that makes Dean think that he's quite happy on Sam's behalf.

Dean glances at the tables nearby. Crystalline pitchers of water are centerpieces in the circles of glasses. Plates are out, too; it looks like a few caterers are just starting to arrive, bearing food a step up from the normal peasant stuff they serve at Singer's. "You want to sit down? I'm not really in the mood for dancing."

Castiel's lips quirk up in an impossibly small smile that kind of goes straight to Dean's pants. "No, neither am I."

They end up sitting at a table near the exit, watching Sam and his new girlfriend twirl it up in the center of the room. They eat shrimp and some unidentifiable hors d'oeuvres that taste kind of like cheese and maybe some sort of vegetable. They manage to pass an hour just watching Sam and the girl dancing and talking. Dean rips on the waltzing skills of their classmates, who get increasingly bolder as the night goes on. Castiel smiles at the right moments and occasionally adds his own wry feedback. All in all, it could be worse.

Eventually, Sam breaks away from the blonde-haired Harvelle student and comes over to where he and Cas are sitting. His cheeks are glowing with a good sort of blush, and his eyes are bright and shiny. He reaches down and swallows up Dean's water; Dean rolls his eyes, but doesn't protest. "Her name's Jessica, and she's from Earth. One of the kingdom in the West, kinda near Purgatory. Princess, set to rule when her parents retire. No marriage prospects yet."

"You're moving pretty quickly there, aren't you?" Dean raises his eyebrow, but really, he's grinning. It's hard not to when faced with Sam's puppy-love.

"It's common enough conversation," Sam replies defensively.  He lowers his voice when he adds, "I didn't mention to her that I'm not really going to fight you, or any of our plans to run. Don’t' worry."

"I won't." There's a momentary pause in their conversation as the three of them all sip at their drinks. Then Dean nods to where Jessica is huddling with her friends again; this time, they're the ones who are sneaking glances at Sam. "You should get join up with her again, Sam. Don't want her friends convincing her that she's too good for you, and all."

"They won't," Sam replies confidently. He finishes up the last of his water, and then asks, "Why aren't you two dancing?"

 _Because we're just friends and friends don't dance together like that?_ Is what Dean almost says, but then he realizes that oh, Sam means why aren't they dancing with the Harvelle students. Not why aren't they dancing with each other; it wouldn't make any sense for Sam to think that. Because there's nothing going on with him and Cas. Absolutely nothing.

Dean realizes that he's been silent for a moment too long, and then quickly says, "Um. Well, my legs are pretty tired from riding Impala, you know? And I don't wanna just go and break the hearts of some of those ladies out there." He forces a roguish grins. "Not like I can marry any of them, not when I'm on the run from Mikey."

"That's true." Sam nods, looking a little sad, although what he said earlier about not telling Jess pretty much confirmed that he already knows that he can't just go and marry a princess. "I guess there's not much point."

And damn is that doesn't make Dean feel guilty. "I didn't mean it like that. Go on, Sam. No point being miserable now, just 'cause we're going to be getting away from all this shit. It's a dance, not a frigging proposal."

"Yeah. Maybe." Sam puts the glass back down on the table with a _clink_. "I'm gonna go and dance with her. For as long as she wants."

"That's the way." Dean nods in approval that he doesn't really feel. His earlier misery is back upon him, but for completely different reasons: for the first time, he's thinking that running away isn't going to be all roses and shit (not literal shit, though; that stuff is, well, crap). He can see in Sam's face that he really does like this Jess girl, but of course, there's no chance he can get close to her—they've got to go away, unless they want to slay each other. Which is the only other option, because neither Michael nor Lucifer are going to relent in that.

Dean sighs and drops his head into his hands, watching Sam dance and feeling moodier than he has in a very long time. "Fuck destiny."

  


  
Castiel frowns and watches as Dean flops down and mutters something about fucking destiny. He's been acting all out-of-sorts as of late, and it's starting to slightly concern Castiel. Actually, it began with their first horrendous dance lesson, when Raphael made them waltz together; ever since then, all of Dean's jokes and comments to Castiel have come across as being forced. And he seems a lot…shyer now, which is a term that really shouldn't be applied to Dean. Ever. He no longer undresses in the dorm room that they share, when before he would gladly strip down no matter what Cas was doing.

Castiel can find no explanation other than that Dean has figured out that he has feelings for him. This behavior goes against Dean's nature—he's generally affable, humorous, unabashed. The only reasonable thing that Castiel can conclude, then, is that he's upset at Castiel because of how he feels, but he doesn't want to address the subject.

And to be entirely honest, neither does Castiel. Pretending that it's not there seems like a much better idea. But he also doesn't want to just sit here and watch Dean struggle with it.

A plan formulates in the back of his mind. It's probably not a good one, but on occasion, Castiel is more than willing to give into bad ideas. His… _situation_ with Balthazar was proof of that.

Contrary to what plenty of people think, Castiel isn't exactly timid. He just tends to think things through before doing them when they go contrary to how he was raised. Except for when he doesn't, like right now.

"Dean." Dean looks up at him as he stands, his spine popping rather loudly. "Let's leave."

"Leave?" He sits up from where he was slumped over the table. "I thought you wanted to, like, put in a good name with all of the girls."

"That's clearly not happening. Come on." Castiel impulsively reaches out and clasps his hand over Dean's right shoulder, tugging him up. "Don't worry about Sam. I'm sure he'll understand."

Dean tenses underneath his hand even as he stands up, and Castiel drops it, hoping that the light from the torches does well enough hiding his blush. "You sure you want to break the rules like this, Cas?"

"On occasion, I do consider rebellion." He strides purposefully to the door, not looking to see if Dean is following, or if any chaperones are watching. By some divine providence, Dean is, and they aren't. The fact that they can walk straight out of the hall without being questioned about their purpose probably doesn't bode well for those with slightly more risqué intentions, but that's not Castiel's problem, so he doesn't dwell on it.

They end up in the barn. The stable boys ignore them completely, save for a few grunts in Dean's direction; he's apparently become something of a fixture there. Somehow they find a clean pile of hay and end up sinking into it side-by-side, watching the horses munch on their food, stomp their hooves, and make meaning meaningless grunts at each other. Neither of them speaks. In the relative silence of the stable, it just doesn't seem necessary.

The hay is scratchy, and experience in the barn with Balthazar tells Castiel that it's going to end up sticking out of every bit of fabric that he's wearing. But at the same time, there's something intensely peaceful about lying here with Dean by his side. The barn is dimly lit this time of the night, and the darkness is soothing, somehow less intimidating than all of the flicking fires that were in the dance. The soft sounds of horses muttering and hay being eaten are a million times easier on the ears than the music of the horrible string quartet, and all in all, coming here was one of Castiel's better spur-of-the-moment plans.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Dean's face gradually change. It's been pinched and lined for the past few weeks, stressed out about something—presumably, his discovery of Castiel's feelings for him—but in the hazy light from the few lamps the stable boys have yet to put out, Castiel watches that worry slowly slip away. Dean's forehead smooths out, and Castiel thinks that his eyes look less troubled.

They end up staying like that for an hour, maybe more. It's hard to tell, since the workers at the other end of the barn show no sign that they care about time, and the horses certainly aren't bothering to keep track. It's long enough for Castiel to start feeling tired, and to wonder if maybe they should sneak back to their dorm, lest they be found in here.

Dean speaks before he can suggest that, though. "I should probably say thanks. Going to Hell would probably be more fun than hanging around there, but I'd still be being tortured if you hadn't, you know. Pulled me out. So, thanks."

Castiel's surprise is short-lived; his firm belief in etiquette has long been drilled into him. "You're welcome."

"Yeah?" Dean shifts closer to him and sighs, a sound that's almost lost in the noise of the hay rustling beneath him. "Man, sometimes this destiny thing really sucks. Having to run away from Michael and Lucifer? Means we can't do anything else. Sam can never be with that girl, I can never…whatever. Our lives are going to have to suck, and because of what? Some crappy prophecy?"

"Hmm." Dean's turned to face him, and their lips are two inches apart, maybe less. _You can kiss me_ , he thinks absurdly, staring down at Dean's mouth like it's some sort of treasure, some precious red gem that's been hoarded away at Michael's castle all these years. Which is such really weird metaphor that Castiel forces himself to look away from the seemingly hallucinogenic lips, meeting Dean's eyes. "Destiny is… a regrettable concept. I suppose that desiring things that are out of our reach is a common enough problem. To be denied it on account of prophecy _is_ extremely unfortunate."

"Fucking unfair, you mean." He rolls over and lies on his back, hands clasped on his chest as if in prayer. "You ever felt like that? Wanting something that you can't have cause of crappy reasons?"

He hesitates for a moment, not sure how to answer that. "I've been taught that my duty in life is to do as my higher-ups order me to. Desire isn't exactly a part of that."

Dean looks over at him, and for a moment Castiel thinks there's something somewhat sad in his expression. His hands have dropped to his side, are very, very close to touching Castiel. He finds himself holding his breath, as if in anticipation of some moment that maybe is destined to happen. His own fingers curl in, the temptation to reach over and just touch Dean very strong: to feel his calloused fingers and the ridges of his veins, the softness of his skin, the slight wetness of his lips—but that's just foolish, because Dean is way, way out of Castiel's reach. And also, Dean is straight. And it would be foolish to assume that were he not, he would be attracted to Castiel.

Castiel stands up very quickly, nearly stumbling over his own clumsy feet. "I should get back," he mumbles, turning away from Dean. Hoping that Dean doesn't notice one of the more visible signs of his attraction.

"Me too." Dean falls in line next to him, a look of what might be regret on his face. Which is, of course, only due to his situation with Michael and Lucifer, because Dean very obviously has nothing else to be regretful about.

They walk back to the dorms in silence. Their fingers almost touch, but neither of them is willing to cross that giant space between them.

  
  


Time stumbles and spirals down for Dean like bright leaves falling from branches that now seem incredibly fragile. The dance, and the night in the barn, marked a turning point of sorts—just like that, Castiel is back to being distant and silent, as withdrawn as he was when they first arrived. Even Sam comments on it, on the days when he decides to go and hide somewhere for supper, or when he doesn't join the two of them for rides on Impala.

"I dunno what's up with him." Dean shrugs at the questions, like they're just inquiries about the weather, or something else that trivial. "Probably studying. You know him."

"We don't have any tests," Sam replies, lounging against the door to Impala's stall. Dean in inside, knee-deep in the hair that he's curry-combing from her back. His brother pushes his hair out of his eyes; he's let it get long, just one more little way to defy Lucifer.

"I don't know. He's probably studying for finals or something. I know they're not until summer," he adds before Sam can point out that obvious bit of information. "Cas knows too. I just don't know why else he'd be, like, locking himself in our dorm as soon as we get out."

Alternatively, he does, and it's because Castiel knows that Dean likes him. Dean gave too much away that night in the barn; his eyes lingered a moment too long; the conversation drifted to become just intimate enough so that it left the "Friend" zone and entered the "I think you're hot and kind of want you" one. Castiel can see now that his smiles are more forced from the hiding, that Dean takes care not to casually touch him on the shoulder or anything like that. Cas knows, so he's avoiding Dean.

"Is he seeing someone?" Sam asks, and it's so unexpected that Dean turns to look at him incredulously, letting the brush slip from his hand and onto the wood shavings. There must be something in his eyes that says that's about as likely as Michael and Lucifer hugging and making up in the end, because Sam raises his arms defensively. Even Impala gives a lofty snort, like she's picked up on what a strange idea it is, Castiel going out with one of their classmates. "I know that he can be pretty gung-ho about the whole, you know, marrying Dick and obeying orders thing. But he can't possibly just be sneaking off to study, Dean. It doesn't make sense. Even _I_ don't study that much, and you know how much I study."

"Of course he's not seeing someone," Dean scoffs. He bends down to pick up the dropped brush, patting Impala's belly as he does. "Who would it be? Garth? Andy? That other kid who's not related to Andy, whose name begins with an 'A'?" He still hasn't been able to remember him, even though they have all the same classes. So sue Dean, he doesn't bother paying attention to the people he doesn't care about.

"Could be anyone. It's not like any of the teachers bother to make sure that we're not in each other's rooms at night." Which is very true; Sam sometimes comes over to Dean and Castiel's when the smoke from whatever Andy has his hands on grows too strong. He, Sam, and Cas take turns switching between the beds and the floors.

"Well, he's not," Dean says firmly. He circles the brush over Impala's coat with renewed vigor, slowing only when she swishes her tail and gives an irritated whicker. Petting her ears, he says, "Cas doesn't do those sort of things. Like, dating. I don’t think anyone here does; we're too busy with, like, arranged marriages and all that crap."

"I guess," Sam replies. They move onto another topic, the harvest festival that's coming up in a few weeks, and the Solstice break after that—neither of them have any plans to go back to their respective "homes."

But Sam, the jerk, has managed to infect Dean's head with his words as surely as he'd infect a cut if he smeared it over with dirt and ash. And rust. And then added little pieces of broken glass to it; that would pretty much guarantee an infection.

So that night, when Dean is reluctantly reading up on sword-fighting techniques from a book that Caleb gave him, and when Castiel is doing who-knows-what over at the desk, Dean asks casually, "So what've you been doing with all your free time? You, like, dating someone?" He very deliberately doesn't look at Cas.

But Castiel looks at him, and Dean can feel that, the surprise in his eyes as burning and sudden as if someone flung a couple of hot coals at the back of his neck. "Seeing someone? Romantically? No, of course not. You know that I'm—I'm engaged to Dick Roman. That hasn't been called off in the least, however full of rebellion your plans might be."

His words don't hold any accusation. A bit of bitterness, maybe, that he's made his choice not to go along with them (although he should damn well know that the offer will be open until the day he and Sam run away) but mostly it's just surprise that's too intense to possibly have been faked.

"That's good. I mean, it's good that you're not, um, messing around with anyone. Most of the guys here are probably jerks. 'Sides me and Sam." Dean nods, even though he's pretty sure that Castiel has turned around again. "That's good," he repeats to himself, and the amount of relief that he feels is probably kind of pathetic.

  


  
Castiel's routine becomes almost monotonous, which isn't entirely a bad thing. He was raised in a world where obedience was key, and although Zachariah allowed him more freedom as he got older, there is some comfort in order. He has classes daily, and learns a variety of things both useful and useless—how to fight with a broadsword, a comprehensive history of the Hell-Heaven wars, what not to wear with brown shoes. After that, several hours of studying and completing assignments, and very pointedly Not Thinking about Dean. Then dinner, and then more studying. Or possibly reading, or practicing with Caleb, if the teacher has some spare time. Castiel likes sword fighting more than he ever thought he would.

Mostly, though, the hours that don't fall into the pleasant lull of his school routine are occupied with avoiding Sam and Dean. It's for the best, it really is. Dean _must_ know that Castiel likes him in that way, and it would probably be extremely uncomfortable for them to spend time together with that knowledge hanging over them like a heavy sword waiting to chop off their heads (which is probably something of a phallic metaphor, Castiel notes when he first comes up with it. He rather misses Balthazar). And it wouldn't be right to force Sam to spend time apart from his brother, as Castiel sees it. They were separated for so long, it would be unfair for him to come between them.

Unfortunately, Sam has drastically different ideas about what qualifies "Fair" and "Unfair." It probably has something to do with him having been raised in Hell and Castiel in Heaven. Or something like that.

Anyway, the Harvest Festival has just passed by uneventfully when Sam corners him one night as he's coming out of a duel with Caleb. He's walking out of the arena where their class is held, his white commoner's shirt sticking to his chest from sweat, when Sam steps out from where he was leaning against the wall. Were Castiel the flinching type, he probably would have jumped. "Hello, Sam."

"Hi, Cas. What's going on?" Sam falls into step with him like they were soldiers trained to march in the same battalion. "And don't ask me what I mean, because you know the answer to that. I don't think we've spoken more than a dozen words since the dance, and it's kinda starting to worry me."

It's true. Castiel might not be particularly socially competent, but even he can read the concern that brews in Sam's dark eyes, a veritable well of worry-laced rainwater. "It's nothing, Sam. I've…I've been busy."

"I don't know what there is to be busy with," Sam counters, pushing a lock of his rather long hair behind his ears. "It's not like we've been having that much homework. And I mean, I know we've got midterms in a couple of weeks, but come on, you can't be studying _that_ much."

"I've also been dueling on my own," Castiel points out.

"Yeah, but for what? An hour a night? You can't be that busy."

"I wash up afterwards."

Sam rolls his eyes, which is fair enough; Castiel is well aware that this is an argument that he'll lose, unless he wants to disclose his feelings for Dean. Which he doesn't, least of all to Dean's younger brother. "Cas, come on. You're my friend. Dean's down at the barn cleaning up; just come on by and say high to him. And Impala; she misses you."

"Impala loathes me." He has a very clear memory of her glaring and snorting at him, pawing her hoof upon the ground in an almost threatening manner. Probably she was warning him not to approach Dean; animals can be very perceptive. "And as I said, I need to—"

"Everyone here smells like sweat. It's a bunch of mostly teenage guys. And Dean's been at the stables for an hour or something anyway; he's not gonna be looking too beautiful himself. Come on." Sam's eyes meet his, and they widen considerably, to the extent where they look like they would better belong on a baby dog. A sad baby dog. One that desperately wants something that it will probably get, simply because of those eyes. " _Please_?"

Cas looks away, but the damage is done. That, and his mind is already filled with the idea of Dean in the stables, his eyes bright and happy, hair partially sticking to his forehead, muscular arms rippling as he tosses out hay in a gesture that shouldn't be nearly as appealing as it is…

"Very well," Castiel answers, gritting his teeth and silently hating his irritatingly hormone-driven heart.

  


They're in love.

Sam didn't believe it at first, had passed off his nagging suspicions as being nothing more than figments of his imagination. But now, watching Dean and Castiel together in the barn? Seeing the way that Dean grins and unconsciously straightens as Castiel walks in, how Cas blushes and genuinely smiles at the sight of him? There's no denying it. They've both fallen as surely as if they walked off a cliff.

And Sam…Sam kind of likes that. They would make each other happy, he thinks. Castiel is reasonable and straightforward compared to his brother's impulsive willingness to act on behalf of anyone he cares about. And Dean has a sense of humor that perfectly complements Castiel's uptight upbringing. They fit together like two pieces of an unlikely jigsaw puzzle—at first, the patterns on top seem opposite, unfitting, but it turns out that Tab A perfectly fits into Tab B, and they were meant to go together all along. Which Sam recognizes is a kind of sexual metaphor; so sue him, he's been in that frame of mind ever since he met Jess.

In any case, as Sam watches Dean toss a small vessel of polish to Castiel and hears him tell him to start up on Impala's tack, he decides that this is a very good thing. They'll be happy together, as soon as they admit their mutual feelings. And that shouldn't take long at all; it's so obvious to him that they must know. Within a week, he'd bet, Dean and Castiel will be very publically together. A month at most.

Sam pats Impala's nose and smiles giddily, watching the two of them work on shining the saddles. The future looks very bright right there in the barn, and Sam is looking forward to it.

  


  
And then it's almost time for them to be breaking for the Solstice Feast, and Dean and Castiel are still holding each other at arm's length like the other is a precious painting that can only be glanced upon and loved, but never, ever touched, and Sam is forced to admit that he might have _severely_ overestimated their intelligence.

  


  
Dean scribbles to the last minute on Henricksen's exam, forcing himself to do all that he can to finish writing about the trade agreements between the fishing industry of Purgatory and the miners of Hell. It's an amazingly dry, pointless topic, but Dean forces himself to write until Henricksen gives the command to stop. Then he throws down his stylus and resists the urge to cheer, because that's it. Their last midterm of the year. He's got just over three blissful weeks stretching out before him, weeks when he can just rest and relax, hang out with Sam and with Castiel, and let all the learning of academia melt from his brain like chocolate left out on a hot summer's day.

Castiel throws the wrench in that plan.

"I'll be leaving tomorrow," he mentions casually as the three of them lounge in the stable, where they've taken to spending all of their free time. It's an old and rickety barn that offers little protection from the frigid drafts outside. Half the time it feels like the whole thing is just going to collapse on their heads, and it smells like horse poop and hay. But no one else is ever in it, not even the stable boys, who must come and go late at night, like the elves to the shoemaker in that one story. They've got privacy, which is what really matters.

Especially at moments like right now, because Dean imagines that the pissed-off look on his face is probably borderline comical in his outrage, and it's not something that he'd like the assholes in his class to see. "You'll be what?"

"Leaving." Castiel burrows into the hay, pulling his tan vest closer around him. It's snowy out; snow is dripping from their boots, leaving ice-studded puddles on the packed dirt floor. "To go back to Heaven over break. Zachariah demanded that I come home so that he can see how I'm progressing; I thought I mentioned that to you?" At Dean's curt shake of his head, Castiel frowns and continues on. "Well, in any case, Balthazar should be here tomorrow. Unless the weather delays him, which it probably won't."

"You are _not_ leaving," Dean says firmly, his glare narrowing with each word. "No. No way. None of us are, right Sam?"

"Right," Sam confirms. He's sitting on the lowest hay bale in the pile, his legs (which Dean thinks have grown longer in the time that he's been here) stretching in front of him. Castiel is at the top, knees drawn up in an apparent and futile attempt to escape the cold that permeates the air. Dean is the leftmost of the three of them, midway up the pile with his back against Impala's stall. It's their typical arrangement, one they just got into one day and never had the urge to get out of. "Even if Lucifer had asked for me back, I wouldn't have gone. It's the Solstice, and the New Year. We're supposed to be having a good time."

"And I told Michael to go to Hell when he requested me. Fuck, maybe he will. Maybe he'll have supper with Lucifer and they'll cry and hug and shit, and then this whole fight will be over." The absurdity of the imagination makes Dean smirk for a moment, before he remembers that he has a Very Serious situation on his hands here. "You're not going Cas. End of story. Unless…do you want to go?"

He looks sharply at Castiel, whose dark hair is all messy from the wind and the snow. His calves are nicely accentuated, the way he's got his legs drawn up, and Dean really wishes that he could think with his upstairs brain for a moment. Probably Castiel does want to leave. Probably he's sick of Dean's quick glances and swallowed admirations.

"Of course not." Castiel frowns, like the thought is completely bizarre. "Dean, it would please me greatly to just stay here with you and Sam. I promise. But I can't so openly deny Zachariah. There's no way that he would stand for that. I would be punished… probably removed from this school for my rebellion."

"That's batshit," Dean grumbles, but he doesn't know what else to say. It's a trying task, attempting to teach Castiel about freedom, personal choice, and telling his higher-up to go and fuck himself. Dean isn't the best of teachers, and this is a topic on which there really isn't a preexisting lesson plan.

It's not that Sam isn't enough. No way, not at all. Dean loves that he gets the chance to spend Solstice with his brother, he really does. It's their first in twelve years, and it's going to be awesome.

But at the same time, he had really been counting on Castiel being there, in all of his stubborn, socially-uncomfortable glory. Because Dean likes Castiel. A lot. In a lot of ways. And having him nearby would push this holiday from 'awesome' to 'fantastic.'

Still, you can't always get what you want. And if Castiel is set on going back to Heaven, Dean can't change that. He'll just sit around and mourn the lost opportunities while having a damned good time of their own with Sam.

  


  
Castiel is woken up by a loud _thump_ against the dorm window. He presumes that it was just a leftover tendril of dream sneaking out and making him think that it was real, and so he rolls over to face the wall and tries to go back to sleep.

_Thunk!_

At that, Castiel does sit up. He notices that Dean is stirring too, blinking and scratching at his head of sleep-mussed hair (which should not be nearly as attractive as it is). "Wass 'at?"

"I don't know." Castiel swings his bare feet onto the worn rug and takes a long step so that the window is in reach. He lifts the shade, not knowing at all what to expect—

And is more surprised than he should be to see that it's Balthazar behind this. Balthazar, who's standing knee-deep in snow and grinning like mad, another snowball readied in his hand.

A reluctant smile splits Castiel's face, and he works the frost-coated window open. "Balthazar. It's good to see you."

"Just good? I think that it's utterly amazing, simply fantastic, absolutely _divine_ to see you again, Cassie." Balthazar chucks the snowball so that it splats just below the window. "Now let me in, you fool. We've got _plenty_ of things to discuss."

  


  
By the time that Castiel is decent, Balthazar, Dean, and Sam are all down in the cafeteria, making good use of a basket of fat muffins.

"Took you long enough," Balthazar says.  His feet are up on the bench, melted snow pooling beneath them. Castiel rolls his eyes and slides in across from him, sitting next to Sam. "Even Sam's out before you, and he's got a good deal more hair to take care of."

"I would have been ready earlier if it hadn't taken so long clearing your security." Bobby's not up this early in the morning, and Professor Turner is a good deal more paranoid than he.

"Blame it all on me, why don't you." Balthazar shakes his head in mock hurt, taking an impossibly large bite out of his muffin. "That really pains me, Castiel."

"No, it doesn't." Castiel picks up a bran muffin from the basket and reluctantly begins chewing. He has the foolish desire to draw this day out as long as possible, put off his leaving for as long as he reasonably can. It should be a welcome opportunity, this chance to go home and see Zachariah, receive further instructions on how to conduct himself—but it's not. He wants to stay here and get into snowball fights, he and Sam against Dean. He wants to be there in person to wish Dean a happy Solstice when Dean has just gotten up, and still has sleep clouding over his green eyes. He wants to be around to ring in the New Year with these people, his friends. That goes against everything that he knows about obedience and lack of desire, but it's still true.

"You've got me there." Balthazar sits up straight. "So aren't you going to ask me when we're going off? Heading back to Heaven, away from these two infuriatingly close brothers?" He nods at Sam and Dean, who are sitting on Castiel's side. They roll their eyes in tandem. It's rather impressive.

"I was going to finish eating first, but since you've brought it up…" Castiel nods at Balthazar, who sits up with a flourish. He lives for this attention, having all eyes on him.

"That's the grand part, Cassie. We're not."

Castiel stares at him blankly, his mouth automatically working to chew up the muffin inside of it. Balthazar is grinning with his fingers together in a steeple, very clearly waiting for a reaction.

Castiel swallows and says, "What?"

"We. Are. Not. Going. To. Heaven. Unless you're absolutely set on it, but, well, something tells me that you're not." He raises his eyebrow knowingly and Castiel glares, slightly hating him even as he prays that neither Dean nor Sam pick up on the meaning of the gesture. "You see, there was this _terrible_ snowstorm, and I came in during the middle of the night half-frozen and near death. I simply wasn't able to travel, and you, like the loyal friend that you are, made it your job to sit by my bedside until my fever finally broke. Right?"

"There's no way that Zachariah will buy that. You don't look sick at all, for one thing; a glimpse at your face and he will know that you're lying." Castiel shakes his head. Of all of the foolhardy plans that his friend has come up with over the years, this one is a standout.

"Yes, but if you write him a letter certifying that it's true and send it along with one of this school's messengers, he'll have no choice other than to accept it. After all, little Castiel would never rebel. The very idea!" Balthazar smirks. "Come on. You definitely don't want to see him, he doesn't really want to see you, you still get to see _me_ —it's a win-win situation for everyone."

Castiel opens his mouth, with every intention of protesting that this is a foolish scheme that Zachariah will never buy. But then he glances over at the Winchesters. Dean, leaning against the scarred wooden bench and grinning at the prospect of him staying around over the Solstice break. Sam, leaning forward with an optimistically intrigued look on his face. And then there's Balthazar, sitting across from them with that eternally smarmy expression of his.

His family, the three of them. More than Zachariah ever was, and more than Dick Roman will ever eventually be.

So Castiel sighs and agrees with some reluctance, but most of it is forced, put on only out of habit.

"They've fallen for each other _ve_ -ery quickly, haven't they?" Balthazar mutters to Sam, his accented voice pitched low so as to not be overheard.

Sam glances at him. The two of them are lounging on the far end of the hay bales and watching Dean teach Castiel how to properly braid Impala's mane, a skill Sam picked up on weeks ago—"Not that we need to make her look like some chick pony, but just in case I ever show her, it's good to know," as Dean put it.

Now Dean's fingers are very carefully guiding Castiel's as he shows him how to plait his horse's mane. He grins as Castiel clumsily works it out, saying a quiet litany of "Yeah, that's it, good job." And Castiel is smiling in that small but definite way of his, reddening during the moments that Dean's hand lingers on his for a couple of seconds longer than is strictly necessary.

"Yeah," Sam replies, quiet enough so that he's sure Dean and Castiel won't overhear him. The barn is noisy today, anyway; a lot of students are heading back for their homes like Castiel is supposed to be doing. "It's been like this for a while now. Driving me crazy."

Balthazar laughs. "They're delightfully smitten with each other. It's sweet, really. Would be nicer if they weren't so _stupid_ and could actually realize the mutuality of their feelings."

"Tell me about it." Sam is torn between rolling his eyes and grinning; he ends up just shaking his head and flopping back onto the scratchy hay bales. "It's like they're doing it on purpose."

"I doubt it. With all due respect to Castiel—and I _do_ respect him, really—he is _not_ what you'd call socially aware. He probably thinks Dean loathes him, or something like that." Balthazar shakes his head, tossing a leg up over a hay bale in a way that looks both lewd and exceedingly uncomfortable. "He's completely unable to realize that the rest of us are absolutely _drowning_ in the sea of sexual tension between the two of them."

"I'm the one who has to be around them all the time." Sam fiddles with a loose piece of hay, frowning as he watches Dean make lovey-dovey eyes at Castiel when over Impala's back. Castiel, naturally, isn't looking, and Dean probably isn't even aware that he's doing it. "I wish that there was something I could do. You know, to…"

"Hook them up?" Balthazar supplies helpfully.

"Yeah, that. Make them realize that their feelings are mutual. But I don't know _how_." He snaps the hay in half, frustrated. "There's no way I can just bring it up with them; they'll just deny liking each other at all. And it's not like I can, I don't know, lock them up in the dungeons together. They're already sleeping in the same room every night. If they haven't hooked up by now, they're never going to. I just wish that there were some way I could make them, like, lose their inhibitions. Entirely."

It takes him a moment to realize that Balthazar is staring at him, a small, coy smile on his face. Sam frowns. "What?"

"Well," Balthazar says slowly, "if you really mean that, I _do_ have a few things I'd let you borrow…"

Castiel stares at the admittedly impressive collection of flasks, flagons, and booze bottles that are currently spread out across the floor of their dorm room. Balthazar sits behind them, wearing some sort of apron that Castiel thinks he stole from the kitchens back at the castle. He's a bartender without a bar, and Castiel, sitting directly across from him and in full view of the not-totally-legal drinks, is his desired patron.

Balthazar raises his eyebrow and sweeps his hand over the liquor. "Come on, Cassie. The best, the finest, all snatched from Zachariah's personal stash by yours truly. It would hardly be finishing school without at _least_ one night one wild, reckless partying, right?"

"Amen to that," Dean calls from his bed where he's sprawled on his stomach, looking down at the glass bottles. He has a loopy grin on already, like he's been mentally drunk for hours. "It's totally safe as long as we don't, like, get drop-down drunk and we stay in here. Trust me Cas, I've stolen stuff from Michael loads of times."

"If Robert Singer walks in here right now," Castiel says, ignoring Dean's comment on the purported safety of this, "We _will_ be expelled. That is not risk that I am willing to take. The answer is no, Balthazar."

He stands up and starts to walk away. Surprisingly enough, it's Sam who calls back to him. "Cas, wait. Um. I want to have a few drinks, but I don't wanna get, like, drunk. And I know these two won't stop me, so…" Sam, sitting next to Dean's bed, blinks pleadingly at Cas. "Please?"

Castiel hesitates, but in the end the fact that he thinks of Sam likes a brother wins out, and he reluctantly sits back down on the flat carpet again, sighing. "Don't let this be a mistake, Balthazar."

"Of course not," his friend says cheerfully, pouring some form of amber brew into a tiny glass, which he then thrusts into Castiel's hand. "Now. Why don't you get us started?"

Dean is quite pleasantly buzzed, a bottle of beer in his hand and several shots under his belt. He hasn't felt like this in quite a long time—not since leaving Heaven, definitely. That's one of the few things that he misses about the place, Michael's stash of all the finest wines and gins. They were supposedly kept under lock and key. Dean, fortunately enough, was very good at picking locks.

He's lying on his side now, where he has an optimal view of Balthazar, who seems mildly tipsy (although he always has that air to him, so it's hard to tell how much is drunkness and how much is his normal personality), Sam, who seems curious about everything but still pretty sober, and Cas.

Cas, whose skills even Dean is impressed by. He hasn’t been paying attention to the number of times that Balthazar refilled his tiny shot glass, but if he had, Dean bets that he'd be amazed. And Cas looks _good_ , too. Maybe it's just the booze in his own head talking, but damn. Some drunks fall apart. Castiel looks as composed as ever, even as he lets out a small belch and then hastily mutters a slurred, "Scuse me."

"'s okay, Cas." Dean grins at his friend/roommate/crush, and to his surprise, Castiel actually smiles back—not his normal reserved, half-tilt of his lips, but an actual, toothy grin. 's weird, but it suits him.

"I like it when you smile like 'at," Dean says. He sits up, beer sloshing in his bottle, and then almost falls back down. The room spins for a moment, and then steadies. Yeah, he's drunk. "Should do it more often," he adds, nodding sagely. Castiel nods back. His head bobs for a moment too long. It seems like the effects of the shots are finally coming up to him.

Dean flops off the bed, nearly elbowing Sam, who scoots quickly out of his way. "Dean, don't you think you've had enough?"

"No, he hasn't," Balthazar says quickly. He gives Sam a Look that Dean, under other circumstance, might analyze. Tonight it just makes him laugh. "We'll know when he's had enough, won't we, Sam?"

Sam rolls his eyes and says something about stupid ideas that never work. Dean's not sure what he's talking about because right now, he is totally focused on Castiel. Castiel, who is bravely swallowing down yet another shot. His throat looks long and lean, and Dean has the absurd urge to reach over and kiss it hard, mark it with his teeth.

And because he's maybe kind of drunk, he does. He leans over, and he kisses Castiel right where his neck joins up with his collar bone. Above him, Castiel stills, the shot all swallowed.

His skin tastes like sweat and, well, skin. Nothing notable. Kinda soapy, maybe, the cheap stuff that the school gives them down in the communal bathroom, the kind that gives Dean a rash if he makes the mistake of using it in certain places. But it's Cas's neck that he's kissing, so it's good.

When Dean is satisfied with the mark he's sucked on Castiel's throat, he pulls away and blinks up at Castiel. Who is staring at him, eyes wide with shock. His shot glass lies abandoned on the carpet, and for the first time hesitation worms its way into Dean's drunken mind. Was that not a good idea?

"Di'ja like that?" he finally asks Castiel, who just keeps on staring at him. It's getting disconcerting. And highly uncomfortable.

Castiel hiccups. "You kissed me, Dean."

"'s 'cause you're hot," he replies. In the back of his mind, a tiny alarm bell starts ringing, telling him he is leaving the territory of Normal Drunk and entering that of Feeeeeeelings Drunk, or The One Where He Lets Out All His Secrets. But Dean just takes a swig of his beer and continues to talk. He can't trust that the alarm is right. He's pretty drunk, after all. "I mean, daaaaamn, Cas. Do you know? Like, your eyes are all _blue_ an shit, and your hair. Your hair's, like…dark. 'nd ruffly. It's good hair," he adds, in case Cas doesn't get that.

"If you were kidnapped by Lucifer," Castiel says in response, his blue 'n shit eyes burning with a drunken sort of flame, "I would go t' Hell and get you. 'f you fell down, I would raise you up." He nods, like he's agreeing with everything that comes out of his mouth. "I'd _die_ for you, Dean."

"Woah." Dean's eyes are wide, his nods wide and uncoordinated. He probably looks kinda stupid, but they're all drunk anyway, so he's totally cool given the context. "I'd die for you, too, Cas. And not just 'cause you're, like, super burning hot."

He leans forward, until he can smell Castiel's fermented breath and count every single freckle on his nose. "I'd do it 'cause I _like_ you. Like, love like. And not in the family way, either." He shakes his head, somehow managing to more or less keep Castiel's intense gaze locked with his. "I mean in the _good_ way, Cas."

"I understand," Cas says solemnly.

It's impossible to say who leans forward first, who makes the move—but then they're kissing, and okay, Dean _likes_ this.  Castiel's neck was pretty awesome, but his lips are something else entirely. Dry and slightly chapped, and also as forceful as they need to be in the moment. And—shit, is that _tongue_? It is, and that bit was definitely not initiated by Dean. Which is too bad, because it's so damn twisty and spit-slicked and good that he'd love to be able to take credit for it.

They come up for air a minute or ten or eighty later, and that's when Dean remembers that they're not alone. Balthazar is totally watching them from across his bottles, smirking. And Sam is biting down on his lower lip like he's trying not to laugh, looking more satisfied than maybe he should.

"I think we should get going, Sammy boy," Balthazar says suddenly, standing up and clambering over his collection of assorted adult beverages. "I'm going to be staying with the younger Winchester tonight. Have a good time, boys." His hips are swaying from side to side as he leaves the room in a drunken victory walk. "Use protection!"

Sam rolls his eyes and stands up, managing to be fairly coordinated considering the circumstances. "I'm, uh. I'm gonna go. Good night, you two. Have fun." He grins, and then he scrambles out the room and is gone, the door shut and locked behind him.

Dean looks back at Cas. Cas blinks back at him. He has very nice eyelashes, Dean notes.

It's just the two of them, a pair of beds, and a remaining pile of drinks.

"Want to make out?" he asks. He's not much of a poet when it comes to things like this.

Thankfully, Castiel isn't a romantic mood at the moment, because he just nods seriously and asks, "Which bed?"

Castiel comes to with a headache pounding his head like soldiers beating their drums on the battlefield, and with a body sprawled over his. His first thought is that these things are probably connected.

He blinks, manages to clear the worst of the silken gray veil from his vision, and then sees that it's Dean who's lying on top of him. Whose hand is tucked under his shoulder, whose head is planted over his shoulder, face flattened against the small, flat pillow that they're sharing. He's still snoring lightly, and Castiel can feel his chest rising and falling with each inhale and exhale.

It takes a moment for these pieces to connect into a complete puzzle, and then for the memories of the night before to really come through. When they do, Castiel shoots up in bed, swearing and managing to completely dislodge Dean, who then rolls off the bed like he's boneless.

"Shit!" Dean's eyes snap open as he scrambles to regain himself, knocking over several bottles of uncertain origin as he does, remnants of last night's revelries. Which were brought about by Balthazar.

Balthazar, who knows Castiel better than anyone, and who Castiel has never really managed to hide anything from.

"I'm going to murder Balthazar," he growls, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes, which are currently protesting the dim light that manages to slip under the curtains.

"Did you push me?" Dean asks, apparently having not heard him. He's sitting on the carpet in nothing but his pants. His legs are splayed out before him, and is that a… a _hickey_ on his clavicle? Castiel's hand automatically goes to his own neck, and he's completely unsurprised to find a similar mark.

"Cas?"

Castiel becomes aware that he's slack-jawed and gaping at the moment, just staring blankly at Dean, who looks bizarrely hurt. "Dean. We…we made out."

"No shit. Did you push me?"

"No, of course not. I was merely surprised, because I just woke up with you lying over me, half-naked, and I'm also rather hung-over, and I only vaguely recall the events of last night. But no. I didn't push you."

"That's good." Dean rubs the back of his head and then looks away from Cas, distracting himself by setting the knocked-over bottles right. "So."

"So."

"Did you…did you not want that?"                                                                 

Of all the things that Castiel had expected to hear from the decidedly heterosexual Dean Winchester's mouth, concern for Castiel's sake was decidedly not one of them. "What? It…it doesn't matter what I want…"

"That's crap, Cas." Dean looks back at him, frowning. Now his fingers are rubbing at the bruise on his neck, which Castiel vaguely remembers leaving. It's all kind of muddled in a twist of sheets, sweat, and unpleasant-smelling beer breath, but he thinks that Dean had arched against him and given some definite noises of approval when he left that particular mark. "Of course it does. And I mean, we were both drunk and everything, but I don't want to think that, like. I fucked everything up cause we did something that you didn't want, you know?"

"What? Dean, no." Castiel shakes his head and stands, despite how his head protests such a move. Carefully stepping over the bottles, he goes to sit on his own cleanly-made bed, which definitely wasn't slept in last night. "I…I thought _you_ didn't want that. You prefer the company of women."

"Yeah, and one guy." Dean laughs, although it wasn't really a funny comment. Then he winces and presses a hand to his temple, and Castiel infers that he's probably also suffering from a rather unpleasant hangover. "I mean, you don't like me. It's cool, Cas. Not your fault. We were both drunk and really stupid, and—fuck, Sam knew about this, didn't he? I'm going to _kill_ —"

"Wait," Castiel says, frowning, because maybe it's just the hangover, maybe it's making him stupid, but—"one guy?" Perhaps Castiel's lack of social skills are making the true meaning of those words escape him, but it almost sounds as though Dean is insinuating—

No. No, stupid, stupid idea. Dean doesn't like him.

Except, didn't he say that he did last night? Or is Castiel making that up, some imagined conversation created by the booze?

There is precisely one way to find out, and Castiel decides that taking it is by far the less painful route. "Dean. Do you like me? In _that_ way?"

Dean starts and stares at him. For once, it's he who's blushing all red, not Castiel. He rather likes the change. "Look, if you don't like me back—that's cool. It's not like you can control it. I get that. And it's not like you want to jump the bones of every guy that you see. I understand—"

"Dean. Do you like me as more that a friend?"

Dean drops his gaze. In an uncharacteristically silent voice he says, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do, Cas."

 _Oh_. Castiel nods, his mouth stuck and no words willing to make the long passage from his thoughts to his throat. Three months of having fallen for Dean, three months of being determine not to say anything for fear of him finding out and their friendship ending—and Dean _likes him back_? This is absurd. This has to be a dream.

He slides off of the bed and sits on the floor next to Dean, kicking aside some empty canisters to make room. Dean turns to look at him. His mouth quirks up in a small smile, despite the heaviness in his eyes. "Cas? You wanna say something? Cause I'm getting kind of worried over here."

Castiel licks his lips and prays to his absentee Father that he doesn't screw this up. "Dean. I. I like you too. In that way."

Surprise flickers over Dean's face, but then it's gone, rare and unlikely as lightning on a sunny day. "Really? Shit. I wasn't expecting that."

"Me neither," Castiel admits. He tries for a small smile. It seems appropriate.

Judging by the considerably larger grin that breaks out over Dean's face, it was. "Cas? Can I kiss you?"

"Yes. I mean, of cou—"

Dean's lips are as soft and perfect as he remembers from last night, and Castiel is absurdly thankful that that wasn't just something that the alcohol had forced him to imagine.

They stay like that for an indeterminate amount of time, just kissing with short, quick gasps of air in-between the soft touches. Castiel thinks that they're making up for lost time now, both of them sitting on their dorm floor, lazily kissing and running their hands over the other's hair, shoulders, back. Dean's muscles are hot under Castiel's cool touch, his skin smooth and almost gold, and Cas thinks that he could very easily do this all day.

But eventually they break apart, both knowing that they need to get downstairs at some point, let their asshole friends (or brother, in Dean's case) know that they didn't choke on their own vomit overnight. They stand up, getting dressed in the same room for the first time in a long time.

"Cas?" Dean says, his back to him as he pulls on his pants.

"Yes?" Castiel fastens a high-collared shirt, doing his best to make the hickey marks as unobtrusive as possible.

"Happy Solstice."

Castiel smiles, feeling genuinely at peace, something he really hasn't felt since he first heard of his engagement to the Lord of Purgatory-by-the-Sea. But as he says, "Happy Solstice to you too, Dean," all thoughts of Dick Roman are temporarily swept from his mind, and Castiel feels really and truly good.

Sam and Balthazar have been waiting in the dining room for the better part of an hour, nursing their hangovers in relative peace (although Sam thinks he was considerably more affected, despite having only had one beer and a couple of shots). Bobby stopped by once to wish them a happy Solstice. Sam prays that he looks far better than he feels. Which wouldn't be hard, since he kind of feels like crap.

"Oh, look! Here come our lovebirds now." Balthazar grins and nods to the entrance. It's about half-past-noon, by Sam's estimations, far later than either his brother or Castiel are wont to rise.

The two of them slink over to where he and Balthazar are seated. Cas slides in next to Balthazar, Dean to Sam, and no one looks at each other. It's very, very quiet for a moment, possibly even surpassing That Time Dean and Castiel Started Making Out Right Next to Sam in terms of uncomfortableness.

Naturally, it's Balthazar who breaks that awkwardness, or possibly makes it even worse.

"So," he says brightly, slinging his arm around Castiel, "did you two embrace the most fervid depths of passion last night?"

Dean chokes on the sip of water that he was swallowing. Sam instinctively thumps him on the back until he's more-or-less regained control of his breath. "How is that _any_ business of yours? And why the fuck did you get us drunk? Do you know what a fucking dick move that is?"

He glares darkly at Balthazar, who takes his arm off of Castiel to raise both his hands in a defensive gesture. "Happy Solstice to you too, Dean. And of _course_ it's my business. Castiel has been like a younger brother to me—well, all the times we screwed excepted—and I am _highly_ concerned about his love life. As for getting drunk, it was quite clear that you both were being willfully blind, and Sammy and I just couldn't stand being immersed in your sexual tension a moment longer. I mean, I've been here for about three days and I thought I was going to _drown_ in your obvious desire to just grab each other and start humping with your clothes on."

Dean glowers at him a moment longer, and then Sam suddenly finds himself the object of Dean's ire, his older brother's burning eyes directing all of their fire onto him until he's burning up. He resists the urge to sink low on the bench. "And you, Sam? You actually wanted to get me and Cas drunk so we'd hook up?"

Sam swallows hard, glancing briefly at Castiel and Balthazar for moral support. Balthazar just leans back and grins, flippantly raising an eyebrow. Castiel wears a slight frown, but he doesn't look like he's about to draw his sword and run Sam through. He nods at him to go on, more supportive a gesture than he's getting from Dean. "It's not like that, Dean. Not really. I mean, it wasn't my idea. But…I do want you to be happy. You and Cas. And I'm sorry, but it was really, really obvious ever since the dance that you two were, you know." He waves his hand vaguely, trying to figure out how to say this without bringing the l-word into play. "Attracted to each other."

"Funny how everyone noticed that but you two." Balthazar rolls his eyes. "Anyway, all's well that ends well. And it _did_ end well, right?"

"It ended _fine_ ," Dean replies. He turns away from Sam, his thick, practically tangible anger slowly abating. "And that's all you need to know."

"Fair enough." Balthazar's merry grin makes it very clear of his opinion of what _fine_ consists of. "Now. How shall we spend the rest of the day on this merry Solstice celebration?"

They end up hanging around in the barn for the rest of the day, predictably enough. Sam doesn't mind that, though. It's nice to have that bit of normalcy, now that things are very clearly different with Dean and Cas.

They don't make it obvious, of course. Castiel is decidedly _not_ the type of person to show affection in public, Sam knows that without having to look, and he thinks that Dean is still a bit freaked out by the way that he's with a guy. Probably not wanting to make that public quite yet.

The signs, though, are there for someone who knows. How Dean and Castiel walk just a bit closer than usual; how Dean's hand sneaks up once or twice to rub Castiel's fingers. How Castiel lingers near Dean, where he would have put distance between them before.

It doesn't bother Sam, not really. He knows that this probably will affect the dynamic of their trio, but they were lusting after each other so strongly before that he already had time to get used to the idea. And like he told Dean, he really _does_ want them to be happy. They both deserve that, and if it's with each other that they find that happiness, then all the better.

No, he's not bothered by any of that. It's just that Sam is maybe secretly a tiny bit… _jealous_. Watching as Castiel smiles at Dean, brushes their hands together as they lean in for a brief, two-second kiss—it makes him envious that he can't have that. Because Sam has slowly been falling for Jessica, the smart, beautiful, charismatic girl that he met at the dance.

 Jessica, who's the heir to a tiny mansion in a small providence of Earth that's near Purgatory. Who's the top of her class at Harvelle's. And who has a laugh sweet as sugar dipped in honey, and lips that taste kind of like cherries. She lacks Ruby's cruel, self-centered streak, but has the same sort of inner strength radiating from her.

They talk in letters, but it's not enough. She isn't betrothed to anyone yet, the land she's to rule too insignificant to capture the lure of most of Earth's stronger players. Sam imagines maybe going to her after they graduate, after he, Dean, and probably Castiel have gone on the lam, and inviting her to come with them. He thinks that she'd like that. She's adventurous, from what he can tell.

But for now, he does his best not to think about Jess, about romance that he doesn't have, and tries to focus on the general festivity of Solstice. And on being happy for Dean and Castiel, as they all lounge in the hay bales and relate stories of their professors and their classes to Balthazar. It's a good day, really. And maybe he'll see Jessica later. Right now, Sam focuses on happiness and hope, for his brother's future, his friend's, and his own.

That night, after a vibrant dinner of roasted duck, several different kinds of potato, plates of indeterminate green vegetables, and pie of the pumpkin and apple sort, and after they've both wished Balthazar and Sam a very good night, Dean finds himself back in the dorm room with Castiel. Neither one of them knows how exactly this is supposed to go. The romantic instinct that is supposed to guide young lovers has apparently decided not to present itself in either of them.

"So," Dean says, fingering the waist of his pajama pants.

Castiel nods. They're sitting on their beds, facing each other. The bottles from before have been packed away and given back to Balthazar, who grinned and told them to help themselves whenever they felt like it.

"Do you want to, you know." Dean waves his hand, not entirely sure what he wants to convey. Kiss? Feel each other up? Or something else? He has, admittedly, never actually been with a guy before, which makes this kind of weird. He knows the mechanics of everything just fine, of course, has had some experience with the fairer sex. But that actual _doing_ is something that escapes him completely, although he has fantasized about it plenty of times before.

"We can—we _should_ —take it slowly," Castiel says, crossing and then uncrossing his legs at the ankle. "This is…new territory for you, right?"

"You mean being with a dude?" At Castiel's nod he says, "Yeah. I mean, I'm not, like, innocent or pure in mind or anything like that. But I've never been with a guy before."

"That's fine. It doesn't really make any difference." There's a moment of silence, and then Castiel says hesitantly, "Would you like to come over here?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Dean answers, and then he's there, straddling Castiel's legs and kissing him with all of the passion that was built up during the day through their small touches and quick pecks. There's some lip biting and a hell of a lot of tongue twisting before they finally come up for air.

Dean shifts his weight, not sure how to act. His erection is very, very obvious in his thin cotton pants, and he's fairly certain that he can make out a responding line against Castiel's considerably baggier pair.

He decides to take a risk, trusting Castiel to speak up if he does something wrong. Very carefully, keeping his eyes locked with the pair that he waxed poetically and drunkenly about almost a full day ago, he slides his right hand from Castiel's shoulder to his crotch.

Castiel lets out a strangled grasp. His own hands tighten on Dean's shoulders, and that is very definitely an erection that Dean is palming right now. Castiel rocks into his nimble fingers, a low moan escaping his throat. " _Dean_."

"You like that?" he asks, and his only answer is a short nod and another one of those _moans_ that almost makes Dean come right then and there. To Dean's never-ending delight, though, Castiel isn't so distracted that he forgets to wriggle back further onto the bed, pulling Dean along. Then they're sitting close together, Castiel's back against the wall and Dean with his legs on either side of Castiel's.

Dean lets his fingers trail up Castiel until he's feeling the skin under his shirt. He spreads his hand out on the flat of his belly, just letting himself _feel_. Castiel closes his eyes and breathes in sharply, like even that more-or-less innocent touch is sending heat down to his groin. Fuck, it certainly is to Dean.

"You want more?" he asks, leaning in to whisper against the gentle curve of Castiel's ear. "Huh?" His tongue flicks out, tracing a line along its arch.

"Of course I do," Castiel replies, so testily that Dean almost laughs. And then that thought is driven quickly from his mind, because Castiel's hand is suddenly gripping his dick, running his fingers up and down its length.

"Holy _shit_ , Cas!" Dean arcs up into the touch, and without really thinking about it, reaches down to do the same to Cas. It's the first time he's ever had his hand on a cock that wasn't his, but that's okay. He's a quick learner, and judging by how Dean is about a second away from coming right now, Castiel is a fucking good teacher.

They sleep in Castiel's bed that night, both of them plenty sober and aware of what they're doing. Cas curls against the wall, Dean risks falling off if he decides to thrash about in the middle of the night—but for the most part, Castiel is a warm and comforting weight to hold, and even if Dean loathes the idea of cuddling with every fiber of his being, he has to admit that this _is_ pretty comfortable.

Vacation passes by in a blur. Some of it is spent in the barn, other days, riding through the snowy fields that make up Singer's land. Dean takes Impala, of course, while Balthazar and Castiel each take one of the horses from Heaven that Balthazar brought with him. Sam is left on one of the barn's horses, a young black gelding named Charger. Dean hates him, but Sam thinks that despite not being much of a horse person, he might be able to go for Charger.

New Year's Eve finds he and Balthazar in the dining room of Singer's, milling about with the other staff and students who stayed behind. Dean and Castiel are there for the first hour, but leave before the clock actually ticks to midnight. Both of them claim tiredness as the reason. No one there believes them.

"They're going to fuck," Balthazar says casually to Sam, and Sam almost spits out the sparkling cider that he's drinking. It's not even like Balthazar can blame that comment on being intoxicated; there's no wine in sight.

"That's my brother you're talking about! And one of my friends."

"What? It's not like I said something scandalous." He shrugs, completely unruffled. "They're more or less _dating_ , and they've been making googly eyes at each other all week. And I know Castiel. He has that pre-coital glow about him."

Sam glares at the smarmy Heavener, but there isn't much he can say to deny it. And it probably is true, not that Sam wants to dwell on that thought too long. But there aren't many other reasons why two guys who've already made out would sneak off at nighttime.

Come New Year's Day, Balthazar goes back to Heaven. He stands next to the set of Heavenly steeds all hooked up to their carriage in the icy courtyard, looking as faintly amused as ever. Sam has come to know him well enough to see a tiny bit of regret around his edges, though.

He hugs Castiel tightly before he goes, winking at Dean over his shoulder. "You take care of Cassie, now. I don't want him getting hurt. Otherwise, I just might have to come out here and shed some blood of my own, you hear?"

It's said as a joke, but both Sam and Dean have seen Castiel and Balthazar practicing their skills with the knives from Heaven. And from what they've seen, Balthazar could very well get the jump on either of them.

"Course I will." Dean claps a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Bye, Balthazar."

"Goodbye, Dean. And goodbye, Sam." Balthazar nods at him, and Sam nods back. There's not much to say. As Balthazar and his horses begin the journey back to Heaven, it occurs to Sam that this is it. The Solstice has passed, they're in a new year. There's very little else to do now except go through the motions of schooling to keep Lucifer and Michael from getting suspicious. The only thing separating him, Dean, and Castiel from freedom is time.

 

  
  


It's around a month later, right around the beginning of February, that Dean brings up the giant elephant in the room that Castiel is fairly certain he's the only one seeing. "So you'll be coming with Sam and me when we run off, right?"

They're lying in Dean's bed tonight. It's a Friday on a weekend with absolutely no coming tests or exams to study for, so they've taken the liberty of spending a long, slow time together. Castiel can still feel the burn of Dean's cock inside of him as he lies on his back. Dean is on his side and partially on top of him. It's a comfortable, if sweaty and sex-scented, arrangement.

"I don't know," he replies honestly, not looking at Dean. It's far easier to focus on the ceiling than to experience the true extent of Dean's astonishment, which he can feel stabbing him just fine, thank you very much.

"What? Cas, what does that mean? You're still going to run to go be Dick Roman's lay after all of this?"

Castiel can feel Dean's hurt coming off of him in waves, how betrayed he feels, and it does affect him. It really, really does. But things are _complicated_ , and even through all this, Castiel still doesn't know that he's ready to give up ties to Balthazar. "Dean, it's not that simple."

"It kinda is. You don't like Heaven all that much, I know you don't. But—and correct me if I'm wrong here, Cas, but I don't think I am—you do like me. Leave Heaven, come with me and Sam. We'll have to lay low for a while, but that's okay. Sam, me, and you. We're family—well, not me and you, but to Sam. Both of us. And what we have is as strong as any family bond. Right?"

"Of course." Castiel finally props himself up on his side, looking at Dean head-on. "It has nothing to do with my dedication to you, I promise. It's just…once we leave, there's no going back. We will have fallen from the graces of Heaven and Hell alike—and probably Purgatory too, if I'm not delivered to Dick Roman. What will we have left then? What will I have, if I'm not receiving orders from Zachariah and my other siblings anymore? I don't like them, Dean. I really don't; I'll fully admit to loathing almost all of them. But I don't know what else there is for me, if not for them and their plans."

"You'll have me," Dean says fiercely, and even though it's a clichéd and corny line, he somehow delivers it with a perfect sort of serious intensity. "Don't ever doubt that. And you'll have Sam too; you know you will. And the three of us, we'll have Earth, won't we? It might be the underdog of the four kingdoms around here, but it's held on just fine."

"What will we do, though?" Castiel asks, and he knows that he's irritating Dean something good right now, but what he's saying needs to be said. He is a man of orders above everything else, no matter in what small ways he has defied Heaven. "What is there for us in Earth?"

"I don't know. It's gonna be running for a couple of years, I guess, but when crap dies down…Cas, we can be anything we want to be. Come on, haven't you ever had dreams? Isn't there something that you like to do, that you just wanna spend the rest of your life doing? There has to be."

Castiel thinks on that for a moment. No, there really isn't. His days were spent reading and learning dutifully, for the most part. Some times were spent with Balthazar, but only because Zachariah had never expressly told him not to be with him—and it's not like he wants to sleep with Balthazar for the rest of his days, anyway. Sword-fighting is a good skill and a good diversion, but Castiel isn't sure how he could spend the remainder of his life just dueling person after person.

And what else is there? Nothing, not really. Nothing except…

"Falconry, I suppose." At Dean's raised eyebrow he elaborates, "I enjoyed it in Heaven. The openness of the sky, the communication between bird and master. I had to leave Grace, my falcon, back in Heaven. Part of me misses that. It was like flying, almost."

"Flying, hey?" Dean grins and, reaching back, begins to massage Castiel's shoulder blades. "I never knew that was a dream of yours."

He presses back into Dean's touch unconsciously. The part of him that says they're having a serious discussion is seriously irritated, but the rest of him—which, to be entirely honest, is most of him—says that Dean should absolutely continue on with those _fingers_ of his. "It was. When you're being controlled by so many other people, you don't even think about small-scale rebellion. You just go straight to escaping in the best manner possible."

"Maybe we can fly together one day." Dean bends in and kisses Castiel on the mouth, a quick, non-intimate gesture despite the inherent intimacy of two people lying together in bed. "You, me, and your falcon. And Sam. And the Impala. Away from Dick Roman and Zachariah and the dick rulers of Heaven and Hell. Huh, Cas? What do you say to that?"

Castiel rests his own hand on Dean's shoulder, sleepily traces a pattern on it. "I say, give me time. Let me think, Dean, and I'll get back to you when I know if rebellion on this permanent, never-going-back scale is really the answer."

It's not the answer Dean is looking for, Castiel is quite aware of that. But Dean leans and kisses him again, open-mouthed and all this time, so it must be satisfactory enough, as answers go.

  


  
Time passes, as time is wont to do. January and February are uneventful months for the trio. They learn about how precisely no one knows how to tie a tie anymore from Crowley, about how Caleb feels about the illegal weapon trade in Hell (he thinks that they produce some damn good swords, that's what he thinks) and how Professor Rufus Turner can be convinced to stop their exceedingly dull math lesson—because what sort of a prince needs to know about advanced calculus anyway?—and tell them all stories about when he and Bobby were young and spent their days exploring Earth. Occasionally he talks about a man named John who would go with them. He never tells them what kingdom he was from, but Dean knows in his heart that it's his dad the professor is talking about.

Those are the highlights. There's also learning about culture with Bobby (and listening to him yelling at Garth and Ash, the two guys who never seem to stop giggling among themselves in the back of the class) and learning about the many ways that Heaven hates Hell from Henricksen. Occasionally they have special lessons late at night—cooking, one night; horseback riding another. Dean excels at the latter, and nearly manages to set the kitchens on fire during the former.

As it is, though, most of his time is spent waiting—waiting for the day he and Sam can get out of here and start living life as renegades; waiting for Castiel to give him an answer on whether or not he's going to all-out defy Zachariah and come. It's a topic they really need to discus, but somehow Dean can never bring himself to bring it up after one of their long nights together. Castiel's tongue is too distracting, anyway. And his _lips_. His neck, his collarbone (which Dean might kink on _just_ a smidgen). His cock, too, that's pretty awesome.

It's the beginning of March when a new distraction comes up: a dance. Another one.

"I can't believe this," Dean growls as they walk from Rufus's room. "What the hell? Do they _like_ torturing us? And why do we need to take dance lessons again? I could've gone my whole life without ever having to deal with Raphael again."

Sam is walking to his left as they make their way to the dining hall, but he's lost in his own head. "It's with Harvelle's again. That means that Jess'll be there."

Dean reaches out and rubs his brother's hair, someone grudgingly. Damn him for not indulging his bad mood. "She seems like a nice girl."

"She's awesome." Sam sighs, looking lovelorningly longing, despite the fact that their relationship is based entirely on one night dancing and a shit-ton of letters being sent. "I really think that we should consider asking her to go with us, Dean, when—"

"I'm looking forward to that dance," Castiel suddenly says. It's such an odd remark from him that Dean immediately knows that something is out of place. He automatically tenses, glancing around as subtly as he can.

And then he sees the problem. He's lounging against the stoned wall of the dining room, looking out at the sea of students like he's supervising them—but of course, it's hard to tell. Raphael is as expressionless as always. But his dark, inscrutable gaze is turned at _them_ right now. His head is cocked to the side just enough so that it looks like maybe he was listening.

"Perhaps we should eat in the barn today," Castiel says quietly, and Sam and Dean both nod their agreements.

  


  
Castiel has never particularly cared about the weather. When it rains, it rains. Sometimes it snows. Other times, it is sunny. These are facts of life, and Castiel accepts them. He also accepts that the weather isn't really harmful, beyond occasionally getting you wet. Therefore, whenever he's outside he doesn't really bother watching the clouds or pay attention to the air pressure or anything like that. It is as it is.

But right now, Castiel is very, very much aware that there is a storm coming. He can feel it as they lounge in the barn feeding the appropriate bits of their sandwiches to Impala and Charger. There's a silence over them that is uncharacteristically serious, and it makes Castiel feel as out-of-place as he used to feel when he first met Sam and Dean. He's become used to being relaxed near the Winchesters—although his "relaxed" is, granted, still rather reserved for most people. Now it feels like they're soldiers who've just been thrown onto the battle field without proper instruction.

It also feels like Castiel is going to have to make a decision soon, maybe sooner than he planned. And in the back of his mind where he keeps all of the secret things he's too cowardly to admit to himself, he knows what the answer always has been.

"I'll go with you," he says, breaking the silence that's been hanging over them since they came. "To wherever you end up. I…I'll follow you, Dean."

Saying it brings about an odd finality, and a thrill of rebellion that runs through him with all the intensity of a first shot of whiskey. If Zachariah heard him, oh, Castiel would be punished. Severely. But Zachariah isn't here right now, and he knows nothing of Castiel's decision to rebel. Hopefully, he won't find out until it's too late.

Dean is sitting at the very top of their hay bale stack. At Castiel's proclamation, he smiles fondly and, without saying anything, leans down and kisses him on the lips. It catches Castiel by surprise, that he's being so public with his affections, especially in front of his brother, but he gladly obliges Dean.

"I knew you would," Dean tells him when they break apart. "You're too smart to think of staying and doing what that bastard tells you. You're too good for that."

"I'm glad that you think so." And he is. Never before has Castiel really been concerned with what anyone save for his higher-ups think—but he cares now. Things change, and all that.

"I think we should maybe leave soon." Sam looks the most depressed out of the three of them, and Castiel realizes that if Raphael heard them, then it means that he's probably not going to get to see Jessica again. He's not too good at empathizing and putting himself into other people's shoes and all that, but he feels for Sam right then. "I mean, if there's even a _chance_ that Raphael might have overheard us, if there's a chance that he suspects…I mean, why else would he have been watching us? Michael and Lucifer and all of their henchmen, they aren't stupid. They're probably betting on us not taking things sitting down."

"We can talk to Bobby tonight," Dean says. "After dancing, just so the dick doesn't get suspicious."

So they agree to that, and that's that. Plans made to speak to Singer, to see about running away.

Castiel thinks that Balthazar would be very proud of him.

  


  
Bobby listens to Dean talking with a frown on his face. He strokes his beard thoughtfully as he considers the three of them. Every now and then he takes a sip from his ever-present flask, and Sam has to wonder what it says about their chances of escape, that their advisor has to be mildly drunk to help them out.

When Dean is done explaining about how Raphael might know, and how they should leave immediately, Bobby begins his part. "Boys, if I could, I'd tell you to get out, go to the stables, and ride away now. Believe me, I would. But that's just not gonna work."

He leans back on his chair, holding up his hand before Dean can protest. "The three of you are smart enough to understand how things work around here. I run the place, I say we're neutral ground for preparing all you idjits for your futures—but that's just not the way the world works. If I didn't have teachers from each and every kingdom, I'd have a war on my hands. Well, except for Purgatory-by-the-Sea," he amends. "But Heaven and Hell have always had a presence here. And damn it, I know that they're working for their kings. Raphael, that Crowley fellow—I don't want to be working with them, but I've _got_ to. They want to mold you into what Michael and Lucifer want, and those two have more juice than I do. I'd sacrifice myself if it'd do any good, help this school to _really_ be neutral, but I can't risk my students.

"They're glorified spies, boys. And they're probably watching you. If I thought you could make it out here without being caught, well, then I'd tell you to get outta my sight right now. But you can't."

He swigs from the flask again. Dean looks like he has a million and one things that he wants to burst out with, Sam notes, and if it wasn't for the warning glance from Cas, he'd probably be saying what exactly Crowley and Raphael could do to themselves right now.

"Now, there _is_ one time you might be able to get away with it." Bobby leans forward, and the three of them all automatically lean in. Like somehow that'll make their conversation more private. "That dance that's coming up is gonna be all hands on deck. Raphael and Crowley, they're going to have to be in attendance at the ball. My orders. Now, I can't promise you anything, but if you manage to sneak out at some point, you've got as good a chance as any to get away. And, well, wouldn't be my fault now, would it?" He sits up straight and raises his eyebrows. "All them young boys and girls dancing together, it's hard to keep track of everyone. "

"Sure is," Dean agrees. He folds his hands behind his head, looking far more casual than Sam feels. "I think we could work that out, escaping during the dance—"

"Wait." Bobby holds up his hand. "Dean, all you're going on is one conversation that Raphael _might_ have overheard. That, and all of our suspicions—which are logical, but they don't exactly count for evidence. I'm saying that the dance is an option, if — _if_ — you really think there's a reason to believe that Raphael and Crowley know what you're up to. I don't want you to bet on running now, but if anything happens that causes you to know for sure that we've been found out, then let me know and I'll see to it that you're out during the dance."

Sam and Cas glance at Dean. They're all equals, really, but Dean has somehow become their leader. He hesitates, glances at them, and then slowly nods at Bobby. "I guess that's okay. I mean, I'd rather you just let us go, but…" he shrugs. "Fair enough, though. Bobby, what are we supposed to do once we're out of here? You never gave us the details."

"Glad you asked." Bobby pushes a bunch of papers around his crowded desk, frowns, and then stands. "Forgot I'd put it in the safe." He sweeps some books from off a shelf, letting them clatter to the floor and spit out their contents, and then after a few seconds of clicking and Bobby's muffled swearing, a silver door swings open from between the shelves.

Bobby comes out a minute later holding a worn and folded piece of paper. He carefully lays it on the desk, like it's about to fall apart. "This is a list of safe houses. Old friends and allies of your dad and I. You're smart enough to make it on your own, but if you need somewhere to lie low, these places are as good bets as any."

Dean takes the list and opens it up. The paper is old and yellow, fragile as a butterfly's wing, if said wing consisted of, well, an old sheet of paper. Bobby must have been planning this for a long time.

"Not all of them are available anymore." Bobby cranes his head up to see the sheet. "Caleb and Rufus are teaching here, of course. And Ellen's running Harvelle's since her mom died. She'd probably still take you in, but I don't know how long you'd last. They've got their own spies set up, from what I understand. Jodie Mills, she's at Harvelle's too. Damn shame, that; she's a good ally to be with. But Pastor Jim is still teaching near where your dad used to be. Tamara and Isaac have a small base set up not too far from here, 'bout fifteen miles to the east. There're directions on here for each of them. Frank's a good guy too. If he doesn't stab you soon as he shows up. Hmm…Gordon Walker can't be trusted, but he hates Heaven and Hell, so if you need a place to sleep for a night, he's probably not the worst. You can look at it more later, though; read all my notes and ask me questions.

"And as for what you're supposed to be doing 'til Mikey and Lucifer forget you?" He raises an eyebrow. "Well, I'd say running is a pretty good idea, wouldn't you?"

  


  
"I can't believe we have to do these stupid fucking _dance lessons_ again," Dean growls into Castiel's ear as they sway from side to side. "Haven't we been tortured enough?"

Before Castiel can respond to him, Raphael swoops in on them like an irate mother eagle who's just detected some threat to his eggs. "Prince Dean. Dancing does not require you to speak."

"I'm sorry, Professor Raphael." Dean makes his smile as sickeningly sweet as a batch of cookies that's been laced with rat poison. He very deliberately doesn't call address Raphael as Second Prince to the Heavenly Realms, or whatever his actual title is. "I'll do better."

"See that you do." Raphael glowers at them a moment longer before he's off, demanding to know why Andy and Ash can't hold each other's hand without cracking up. Sam twirls by with Garth, making a face at them. Dean responds with a smirk and pursed lips. Garth is a surprisingly good dancer, actually.

"Dean, don't call attention to yourself," Castiel whispers. His voice is about a dozen octaves lower than Dean's was, and Raphael doesn't yet glance their way. "Humor him. Dance with me just tonight, Dean. We both know that you're capable of it."

Dean doesn't snort, but only because that would definitely call attention to him. "Dancing in the sack's a bit different than this."

"Fine. I'll lead."

Before Dean can think about that, Castiel is pulling him along in an _intense_ version of the waltz they’re supposed to be working on. Dean nearly trips as Castiel sweeps him along; his feet stumble in an attempt to keep up. It's very easy to forget with the way that he's so quiet and, uh, not exactly brawny, but Castiel is really freaking strong. Powerful. And that look in his face as they fucking _kill_ the dance floor is _hot_. Dean is getting the urge to just take him outside and kiss the hell out of him. And then let Castiel take the lead tonight in bed, let him do _whatever_ he wants in bed.

He's so busy contemplating this that he almost doesn't prepare himself in time for the dip. It's only at the last second that he realizes what Cas is about to do, and so he plants his feet on the ground and lets himself become boneless. Which isn't easy, because Dean fuckin' Winchester does _not_ like to give up control of whether or not he's standing to someone else, even if he's given just about everything else that he has to said someone.

His trepidation must be as clear as blood on snow, because Castiel breaks Raphael's beloved 'No talking' rule and whispers, his lips barely moving, "Trust me, Dean. I will not let you fall."

And okay, that's possibly the hottest delivery of those six words _ever_. Dean is pretty sure that his erection is obvious right now. And maybe it makes sense that this is such a turn on. After all, wasn't it while they were dancing that he first realized that he kind of had it for Castiel?

In any case, as Castiel straightens him up (and is it his imagination, or have Castiel's eyes gone midnight blue with lust?) he realizes that now is an extremely inopportune time to have a boner, because Raphael is walking towards them. Dean crosses his legs as best he can and prays that his teacher doesn't go staring at his crotch.

"That was very good," he informs them with exactly the same sternness that he used to chastise them. It's like all of his emotions are permanently set to 'intense.' "I expect that of you always."

They give their proper chorus of thanks to Raphael, and then continue to mindlessly twirl around for the next ten minutes, until their class is over.

As soon as they're outside, Dean grips Castiel's hand tight. "Bed. Now."

And Castiel glances at him, lips curling up in a smirk, and nods.

  


  
Subtly packing up all of his possessions is harder than Sam thought it would be. Probably because he didn't actually think about it in the first place, but. Turns out when you're contemplating possibly running away in the dead of night, you've got to travel light. And it's hard to get your shoulder pack all, well, _packed_ , when your stoner roommate is breathing down your neck. But Sam figures that it's kind of something that you have to do if you plan to run away tomorrow.

"You have a trunk," Andy points out helpfully. "You should put your stuff in there, dude."

"I can't." Sam wracks his brain for an appropriate lie as he stares at Jess's letters, wondering if he can fit them. "Um, Lucifer's not sending me a proper carriage. He wants me to get used to riding on horseback, so that, um, I can look all proper when I'm king of Hell." He nods vigorously. His official story to Andy is that he _might_ need to go see Lucifer for special training, except Andy can't mention it to anyone because it's a secret. Fortunately they've had a lot of tests lately, and Andy's preferred method of relaxation involves the aid of several natural remedies.

"Oh." Andy's eyes widen and he nods, blowing out a puff of smoke that's quickly picked up by the breeze coming in from the window. It's cold, even for early spring, and Sam would probably protest the arrangement if it weren't for how his clothes would otherwise stink of one herbal substance or another, were it closed. "Dude. King of Hell. That is _hardcore_. When you are, can I be, like, your man-in-waiting? Cause I'm pretty sure Anslem's gonna assassinate me otherwise."

Sam sighs. Andy's twin brother is far worse a relative than Dean. "Of course, Andy. Who else would I pick?"

"Sam you are _awesome_." Andy gives him a large, loopy grin. "Seriously."

"Thanks, Andy. You are too." He finally sets the letters aside, deciding that they'll probably end up fitting into Charger's saddle bags. He goes back to what he was doing before they spilled out of their keeping place between his velvet dress pants (which he is _not_ bringing with him, thank you very much): trying to decide how many pairs of underwear to bring.

"I can't believe you're missing the dance." His roommate shakes his head, like Sam is committing some sort of international travesty. "That girl Jess is _hot_. Why don't you just, like, tell Lucifer to shove it? I thought rebellion was your _thing_."

"First off, Jess is more than just hot. She's amazing." Sam frowns, although he knows that she really doesn't need him to defend her virtue. "Second, if Lucifer does call me, I can't say no, can I? He's Lucifer. And anyway, the, uh, training? If it does happen, it's important stuff. Not the sort of thing I want to rebel against."

Andy stretches. He's sprawled on his bed like a contended lion, although instead of a mane he has a hazy cloud of smoke fanning out around his face. Sam's nose is perpetually wrinkled, whenever he's in here. "It must be important, for you to, like, voluntarily go to Lucifer for it."

"Yeah, it is." Sam manages to cram three pairs of underpants into the bag. Before he can contemplate whether or not that's enough, there's a knock on the door.

Andy springs up and leaps to the window, leaning himself and his joint as far out as they can go. Sam rolls his eyes. Andy is a good guy, he really is, but sometimes Sam wishes that he could have had a roommate who didn't have the school's title for biggest stoner. "Who is it?"

"Professor Crowley," a voice with the charm of a slithering snake says from the other side, and Sam freezes. _Fuck_.

Andy swears. "I'm gonna take the jump. See you later." And then he's gone, over the ledge of the window and down a story to the ground. Sam resists the urge to check to see if he's all right.

"Come in, professor," Sam calls. He shoves his bag under the bed, doing the best to hide the traces of his packing—but he can't erase them completely. His clothes are strewn about the floor, as conspicuous as the smell of weed in the air.

Crowley strolls inside, looking like he owns the place. His eyes fall on the mess on the floor, and Sam takes the risk of looking at him, chin tilted and jaw set. He dares Crowley to say anything, the asshole.

"Well, well, well. You look like you're packing for something," he observes. The smirk he wears like some sort of accessory, an ugly bow tie or whatnot, is very much evident on his face. "Planning a trip?"

"No. Just sorting through my things. Is there a reason that you're here, Professor Crowley?" Sam keeps his voice as tight as he can, showing nothing. He thinks that maybe this defiance is more telling to Crowley than anything, but that's a risk he'll have to take.

"I just thought I smelled something funny. I guess not. Have a _lovely_ evening, Sam." Crowley's smile is as putrid as a pile of Impala's shit when it's been outside in the dung pile for three days. In the sun.

Sam smiles back, going for the same effect. "You too, professor."

He waits until he's sure that Crowley _must_ be gone, and then he flings open the door and rushes as quickly and quietly as he can to Dean and Castiel's room. Praying that Crowley hasn't already acted, he knocks on the door. "You guys? I think there's a problem…"

Dean has Castiel's dick in his mouth and is _quite_ content with his current circumstances when someone knocks on the door. They both freeze instantly, caught in mid-blowjob joy.

"You guys?" comes Sam's voice, muffled through the door, and Dean closes his eyes—in irritation, rather than the previous blissful ecstasy with which they were squeezed shut a moment ago. "I think there's a problem…"

 _Fuck_. Dean gives an irritated groan, and Castiel, being the awesome person that he is, calls out, "One moment, Sam."

Dean slides his mouth off of Castiel's spit-slicked, still hard length. Wiping his lips (which he knows are red and swollen; all the clothes in the world might hide his nakedness, but they sure as hell won't hide _that_ ) he says, "Why can't we just have nice moments like this?"

"Because there's a war going on between Heaven and Hell, however quiet it seems. And you and your brother are at the center of it." Castiel stands up. They're both still shirted, and Dean hasn't taken his pants off yet. He was going to, though. He was going to do a lot of things tonight.

Dean waits until Castiel has his sleep pants on in a more or less appropriate manner (the fact that he's not wearing anything under them prevents them from being completely innocent garments). When he gets the nod from Cas, he leans over to the door and turns the knob. "This better be important, Sammy."

Sam glances at him (his lips) and then at the bed, which is, uh, messy. Sheets rumpled, probably a bit of sweat, the whole deal.

His brother turns bright red, and Dean can't help but smirk. At times like this he can pretend that they're a normal family that has normal zany exploits, not two siblings who met by chance at boarding school, and who are expected to kill each other. "I'm sorry if I, uh, interrupted something."

"Don't worry. Won't take us long to pick up." Dean raises his eyebrow suggestively, and now both Cas and Sam are blushing with all the fury of the gods. Oh yeah, he can get used to this.

"I think Professor Crowley knows," Sam reports, and then he tells the story of how the asshole had shown up out of the blue not too long ago at his dorm room, and Dean's heart (and erection) slowly sink as he realizes that no, this night's not gonna go as planned at all.

"Okay," Dean says when Sam is all done. He begins pacing the length of the room, which isn't _nearly_ long enough for all the pacing pent up inside of him. "Okay. So. How soon could Crowley get the word back to Lucifer?"

"Um, if he sent a bird, Lucifer might know by the morning. Or even a really fast rider, one who was willing to go all night." Sam's brow furrows. "But…well, I know it sounds stupid, but…"

"Nothing sounds stupid, Sam," Dean says grimly. He leans against the desk, too tired for someone that was happily prepared for an evening of sex two minutes ago. "But what?"

"Well, Crowley kinda was with Lilith a lot. Lucifer's priestess," he adds quickly, realizing that neither Dean nor Castiel should have any knowledge on Lucifer's court. "She took over after our father killed Azazel. And it's just kind of a rumor, but I've heard that he's studied under her. Like, magic and stuff. And there are ways to communicate long-distance if you've got the right skills; I knew Lilith's official apprentice, and she told me."

"Fuck." So hypothetically, Lucifer might know _right now_ that Sam was packing his bags, and there's no way that Crowley's not going to get the idea that he was leaving. No, Crowley's not going to consider that he was just packing because of a _what-if_.

"He might not have come to any conclusions," Sam says, but his voice sounds weak and Dean doubts that he believes it. Otherwise, he probably wouldn't have interrupted him and Cas mid-coitus. "It was just a bag."

"I doubt it," Castiel says bluntly. "Professor Crowley is, unfortunately, a very intelligent man. It wouldn't be in our favor to underestimate him." Castiel is sitting down in the midst of their messed-up sheets right now. His hair is rumpled, his eyes narrowed as he considers this. Dean thinks, not for the first time, that if Michael has his way he won't just lose Sam. There's no way Cas will be allowed to stay with him. Michael doesn't offer boons like that, not to Dean.

"Do you think we should leave now?" Sam asks. He's biting his lip like it's an embodiment of his worry that can somehow be chewed away. "My bag is packed, and I know you two are ready. Bobby won't blame us if we leave a note for him or something…"

"On the other hand, it's entirely likely that we're being watched right now," Castiel points out in a low voice. "Raphael. I know you've noticed it too, Dean—he's been watching us."

"Are you sure?" Sam asks the question weakly, like the answer that he already knows is turning his stomach like a piece of half-digested rancid meat. "I mean, maybe…maybe you're imagining it?"

"I don't imagine things. And besides, Raphael is my brother. _Half_ -brother, admittedly, and not one I know very well due to the considerable age difference between us, but…" Castiel shrugs. "Spying and stabbing in the back is something that runs in my family."

"At least you're not denying that they're dicks," Dean mutters. "Okay, so Raphael _might_ have been watching us. Maybe."

"Almost definitely."

"Same thing, Cas. So if he is, why does it make a difference if we go tonight or tomorrow or at graduation? If he's told Mikey, he's told Mikey. And if he's going to try to stop us, he'll do it whether we leave tonight or tomorrow. So maybe we _should_ just go tonight."

It's about as ideal as getting a water when you ask for a beer—Dean's not well-rested at all, for one; he was going to have a nice, long sleep with Castiel tonight so he could make it through the early stages of the ride—but maybe it's all they've got. Dean can deal with less-than-ideal situations. Getting kidnapped was one, and he survived. Being separated from his brother; that sucked ass, but he and Sam have made up for it now, haven't they? And falling for his roommate, a guy, wasn't really the sort of thing Dean was up for, was it? But he totally made it through _that_ okay, didn't he?

Without warning Castiel stands up. He puts his finger to his lips, frowning. Dean listens, but all he hears is the sound of their own stifled breathing.

Castiel takes the long step to the door and opens it carefully, his body taking up most of the entrance. Dean cranes his neck, but he can't see outside.

"Professor Raphael," Castiel says, his voice as tight as Dean's ever heard it. "Can I help you?"

A pause, and then: "No, Prince Castiel. I had simply received reports of a strange scent up here, of an…herbal nature. The use of narcotics is _not_ acceptable here, of course."

"I agree," Cas replies politely. "If I find anything out about who it was, I'll be sure to tell you."

"Of course you will. Brother." Raphael likes pauses like some people like gold, apparently, because there's another one before he deems it time to go on. "Make sure that you're not conducting yourself in any sort of unsavory activity. I would _hate_ to have to offer Michael or Zachariah an unsatisfactory report of your doings. Yours _or_ Prince Dean's. Is that clear?"

"Entirely. Good night, Raphael."

Raphael must nod, wave, flip him off. Something nonverbal, because Castiel retreats inside, carefully shutting the door. He glances at Sam and Dean and shakes his head, puts his finger against his lips as he presses his ear to the hard wood of the door.

Dean thinks they stand like that for hours, as immobile as the corpses that they could very well end up being, if they get caught between the furies of the two highest kings around. He's contemplating their own mortality when Castiel finally steps away from the door and slumps down onto the bed, looking shaken.

Without thinking Dean is beside him in a minute, his hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Cas? Hey, you okay, man?" Sam hovers beside them, a look of intense and sincere concern upon his face—but of course, it's also mixed with reservation, seeing as he's not the one currently in the relationship with Castiel. Which probably makes it kinda hard to know how to act.

With effort Castiel straightens up, gently shrugging Dean's hand off of his shoulder—he doesn't like to be comforted; Dean learned that the one time Castiel had a nightmare and ended up kneeing Dean in a really bad place when he went to wrap him in his arms. "I'm fine. Raphael is just very…intense. Very powerful. We can’t…you know…tonight."

"Why not?" Dean sits back, regards Cas carefully. He's strong, Dean has been in enough spars with him during their sword-fighting class to know that for a fact. But if it came down to Cas and Raphael, Dean doesn't know who he'd choose. Which sounds awful, but. Raphael's got a number of years on Cas, he's bigger and looks like he could hold his own in a fight, and he just kind of radiates power. It glows around him, some sort of phosphorescent cloud of dust particles. Or something. Not for the first time, Dean wonders if maybe he's studied in magic.

"He's watching us. I don’t think he's listening in right now, but if we sneak out, he will know."

Sam is nodding along to Castiel's words, and Dean has to admit, with a sinking feeling, that it makes sense. He leans against the wall and sighs. So much for a peaceful last night. So much for a foolproof plan. "Do you think we'll be able to…you know…tomorrow?"

Castiel hesitates—not long; it's there on his face for a fraction of a second before flickering away like some sort of flapping butterfly of foreboding—but it's long enough for Dean to notice, and long enough for his heart to sink like a ship that's hit an iceberg. Castiel is honest. Blunt, really. He doesn't spare any punches unless he wants to hide something really, really bad. "It's possible. Bobby will be distracting Raphael. And Crowley, with any luck. And if Raphael plans to watch us, he'll have to spend the night awake, which won't leave him entirely aware tomorrow. We might be able to make it."

Might. Dean nods, considering. The odds are stacked against them. The odds fucking _suck_.

But there are odds, aren't there? And that's good. As long as there's a chance, he'll take it.

"Then that's that. We…tomorrow. I'll tell Bobby in the morning." And Sam and Castiel are nodding like puppets with jerking strings when there's the sound of something hard hitting the window, and they all jump. Look at each other warily, because what was that? Things don't just throw _themselves_.

But then there's a reedy voice. Sam frowns and steps over to the window, opens it without consulting Dean or Cas. "Andy?"

"Yeah! 's me, Sam. I think I broke my ankle. Can you open the door for me?"

They roll their eyes in an impressively synchronized motion. "Tell him to wait in the barn until morning," Dean mutters. "I'm not risking our asses sneaking out for your stoner buddy."

And Sam does, and then it's silent and they really don't have that many options, so they just kind of all flop down—Sam in Castiel's bed, Cas in Dean's with Dean—and go to sleep, although none of them have particularly good dreams.

  


  
Sam thinks that his time at Singer's has passed impossibly quickly. It has _not_ been half a year since Meg left him here; he's only known Dean for a few days, even if it feels like they were never separated. His classes, his letters written to Jess, riding Charger or Impala—those just _can't_ have taken all this time. It doesn't work like that.

But Sam is a reasonable enough person, and he's willing to acknowledge that there is some small chance that his days at Singer's blurred together into a smear of brownish paint on the canvas of his life. That it really has been over six months since he set foot in Hell, that he really has spent so much time learning about how to tell if a sword truly was forged in Hell or not, on how Earth joined together into a loose federation of estates and lords masquerading as a kingdom, about why you should never wear blue in Purgatory on a Friday. Maybe his sweet nothings to Jess really have taken up _that much_ time. And maybe he has spent a few minutes too many exploring the land on horseback.

However, as Sam sits at the lunch table, staring down at the mess of potatoes, corn, and some sort of meat that calls itself shepherd's pie, all he can think is that that's _wrong_. This day is dragging on so impossibly slow that his time here simply can't have flown by. This day has been soaked in sticky sap. This day is riding on the back of a turtle that has a grudge against him. This day has had its legs trapped in a block of cement.

This day _sucks_.

"You should eat," Dean says lightly. He's doing a fantastic job of pretending everything is normal. Maybe they should become a band of traveling minstrels, acting and having people throw coins at them for pay. It's not the worst idea Sam's ever had; he makes a note to himself to remember to suggest that later. "Gonna be doing a lot of dancing with Jess tonight, right?"

"Right." Sam stabs the pie with a spoon. Steam billows out, and he sighs. He wants it to be tonight, so he can get out of here. He wants to stay to see Jess again, even though he knows that he can't, because it's not fair to string her along. He wants things to be easy and not based on some stupidly rhyming prophecy made by a magical madman. Which means little; Sam is very much aware that you cannot always get what you're longing for in the moment. But still. Time flying would be nice.

  


  
"I can't believe how quickly this day went by," Dean mutters. They're all in his and Castiel's room, changing into their rather unattractive formalwear for the dance. Their bags are stored beneath their token hay pile, Impala and Charger's tack is all polished, and Castiel knows that all they really have to do now is put on a good show and make it seem like they're not running away. They're all very good liars. They should be fine.

Castiel is slipping a bit of protection up his sleeve as he notices the incredulous look that Sam is giving his brother. "Are you kidding me? This day was terrible. It was like every minute was an hour."

Dean grins. "So impatient, Sammy. You should learn to relax."

Sam just rolls his eyes and buttons the sleeves of his plum-colored shirt. The clothes are highly inconvenient for riding, but they'll manage. Castiel is well aware that a bit of discomfort due to black velvet pants is going to be the least of their worries soon enough. "You two ready?"

"Yeah." Dean brushes lint off of his shirt, and then reaches over and does the same to Castiel. He doesn't object; he might not be one for comfort, but Dean's hands are very, very pleasant things to have running over your body. "We go in. Stay for about half an hour, maybe a bit more. Long enough for the dance to get in full swing. When everything's going on, Bobby said he's gonna have a situation in place that'll distract Crowley, Raphael, and probably everyone else. I don't know what, but I'm trusting Bobby here." He waits for their nods to confirm what a good idea this is before he goes on. "Then we sneak out. We head to the stables, take the horses. Go out through the back gate, and ride as far as we can get until the sun comes up. And then we start going in the direction of a safe house, and then we figure out what the fuck we're going to do after that once we're there. Got it?"

"Of course," Castiel replies, and Sam chimes in his agreements as well. They're really, truly doing this. Castiel, who rebelled in his heart a long time ago, is finally making his fall from Heaven's good graces official.

It feels good, he thinks. Once he's sitting on Impala's broad back with Dean in front of him, once Sam is beside them on Charger—things will be good, Castiel thinks. Hopes. Maybe that's the same thing, anyway.

When the first dance was held, the hall it was in seemed massive. Sam remembers how impressed he was with it all—the flickering orange of the torches, the neat, pretty round tables, the string quartet that brought _annoying_ to a whole new level. It had all very much overwhelmed him, especially compared to the relative thriftiness held by the rest of Singer's.

Right now, though. It feels cramped. Intensely cramped. Like the-entire-student-bodies-of-two-schools-are-all-currently-shoved-inside-a-closet cramped.

He can feel the glares of the girls Jess was with on his back, hot and sure as if they were throwing handfuls of coals at him. So maybe he did kind of stumble over his words; maybe his "I'm sorry that I can't dance with you; I can't do this anymore" _did_ come out a bit more insensitive than he had wanted it to. Maybe.

"I can't believe she dumped a drink on you," Dean sniggers, pressing another cloth napkin at Sam. His brother is not at all sympathetic. Castiel just looks mildly bemused. "God, what did you _say_ , you horn-dog you?"

"That we couldn't do this anymore." Sam swipes at his hair as best as he can in his slumped-over-at-a-table position. His bangs are all hanging together in a clump. He probably looks like shit right now, which is fair, because he kind of feels like it, too. Even if Jess seems more like a tornado of fury than a weeping, heartbroken mass of sorrow, breaking up with her like this? Possibly still kind of a dick move. "And that I couldn't tell her why, but I was really sorry. And I made sure that… _you know_ weren't nearby, so."

"You've got one hell of a way with women." Dean takes the cloth from him and roughly ruffles Sam's hair with it. It doesn't do much good; how much water was in that pitcher, anyway? "Real stud, Sammy-boy."

"Shut up." Sam's comeback doesn't have much heat in it. "How much longer?"

Castiel answers him. He's been sitting next to Sam, looking halfway between concerned and uncomfortable at the sight of a sopping wet, mildly heartsick teenager against him. Sam doesn't hold it against him. "Not long. Bobby just exited a minute ago; hopefully the distraction will arise soon."

Good. Crowley and Raphael have been skulking around the dance all night, and Sam is fairly sure that they're both watching them. It's very, very disconcerting, having the eyes of an agent of Heaven and an agent of Hell glued to you at once. "And we still don't know what the distraction—"

Suddenly there's a clamor of noise that rises over the constant buzz of the string quartet, something that sounds like Professor Turner yelling, and Bobby's running back in. "Is that _weed?_ " he bellows, and the three of them turn around all at once.

And sure enough, there's Andy, just standing in the middle of the dance, looking like a cat that got caught with the feathers sticking out of its mouth. Or, in this case, a joint. He spits it out and stamps on it, grinding it into the carpet. "No?"

"How _dare_ you show that sort of disrespect for my school? Raphael, Crowley." Bobby jerks his head at the two spies, who are just as frozen as the rest of the people in the hall. "Take him."

Raphael and Crowley glance at each other—it's easy to miss, but yeah, there's definitely a minute of some minute _something_ passing right there—and then they take a perfectly synchronized step forward.

And that's when, metaphorically, all Hell breaks loose (it's actually more like a combination of Heaven, Earth, and Hell, but).

The mullet kid, Ash, gives a loud battle cry. "Like fuck you _touch_ him!" And then he's racing forward, tackling Crowley and lifting his fist like he's about to punch him, but Crowley easily throws him off. Which makes Andy, who's wrestling against Raphael's grip, start swearing like Sam never heard him.

Just like that, the dance is in utter _chaos_. Ash is on his feet with his nose bleeding, yelling and flipping off a glowering Crowley. One of the guys, one of the members of the group who calls themselves the Ghostfacers, is yelling at Christian Campbell, the stuck-up jerk. Something about cheating on a history midterm. It gets physical real fast. And that's not even _mentioning_ how Ansem is, for some reason, swearing a blue streak at the two guys who call themselves the Ghostfacers. It's a brawl with a string-quartet soundtrack. Even the girls from Harvelle's have picked up on it. Sam thinks he sees Jess snarling at some tall, incredibly pretty student. Bela, he thinks her name is.

Raphael is still struggling to pin down Andy, who is struggling and wriggling an impressive amount for someone so small. The Heaven-sent spy is snarling at Caleb to help him, but Caleb is busy yelling at two of the Harvelle's students who are currently shoving at each other. It's amazing how quickly things spin out of control, Sam thinks. How it's calm and then—

Dean grabs his shoulder and yanks him to his feet, and Sam shakes himself out of his trance with a start. "Come on," Dean hisses. Castiel is already standing, facing the door. "This is it!"

"Right." They stride out at something that's just too slow to be called a run, heading to the door—to freedom, and it's so close; Sam can taste the cold night air right outside the exit—

The doors swing open when they're only a few feet away from escape, nearly hitting them head-on. Castiel stumbles, and Dean catches them, his hands landing automatically on his shoulders in a gesture that's protective and also sort of sweet. Which Sam would think was a weird think to think, if he had time to think about what he was thinking. Which he doesn't, because the brawling mob has frozen to stare at the two men who are standing with the night behind them and the torch-lit hall before them, in what's actually a rather dramatically impressive lighting technique.

"Sam," Lucifer says, frowning, shoulder to shoulder with his brother, King of Heaven, "I know you're in the rebellious teenager phase, but isn't this a _little_ much?"

 

  
  


Michael is there. Dean stares at him like he's a ghost or something. Or not; a fucking ghost would be _welcome_. Anything besides this dick, who's cloaked all in back and wearing his stupid "official" crown, the golden halo with the cross symbol on it. And that must be Lucifer next to him, wearing some weird horned, three-spiked crown. Both of them look all kingly. Both of them look pretty pissed.

Castiel straightens up in his hands. Dean only needs to glance at him to see how pale he is, even in the reddish light from the torches. He squeezes his shoulders. _Stay standing_. This changes things. It doesn't end them.

"Did you really think you could just run away, you fool?" Michael stalks forward until they're an inch apart. Castiel, still in his arms, suddenly feels kind of like a shield, and Dean releases him, lets him step to the side so that they stand with their shoulders almost touching. Cas's hand manages to find his; he grasps it without looking. "Did you, Dean?"

"Sure as fuck seemed like I could," he tosses back. Castiel's hand tightens around his, a warning. Dean doesn't bother heeding it. "With you just sitting on your ass up in Heaven, not like you cared much what was going on down here, did you?"

"I cared very much," Michael replies coolly. "You realize that the only _possible_ thing that could make me stand side-by-side with my brother without throttling him, the _only_ thing that could make us reunite, would be to prevent you and _your_ brother from performing some asinine stunt like this?"

"And let me tell you," says Lucifer, who looks way too amused by all this, "that getting our underlings to agree? _Not_ an easy task. Turns out undying loyalty doesn't mean much when it comes to working with your mortal enemies." He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. Dean thinks—no, he _knows_ —that he hates him. "Who knew? Oh, and who would've thunk that my littlest brother, quiet, timid Castiel would end up in a gay romance with the heir to Heaven?" He nods at Castiel. This time, it's Dean's hand that tightens the grip into a vise just short of bone-crushing. "Hey, Cassie."

"Hello, brother," Castiel says icily. There's no tremble, no fear in his voice. He's standing straight and tall. Dean loves him for it.

"I will deal with Castiel _later_ ," Michael growls. The look he throws at Castiel could whither roses, cause kittens to curl up into little fluffy balls that are too scared to ever move again, but Castiel takes it all. Dean would turn and kiss him long and messily _right now_ , if not for that he doesn't want to be distracted. The room is still deathly silent, but that could change in seconds. Anything could happen; he needs to be on his feet.

"We're leaving," Sam says suddenly. His chin juts out and he _glares_ at Lucifer, all the deadly hatred that comes from having been kidnapped and raised in Hell for twelve years boiled up in there. "And you can't stop us."

"Oh, really?" Lucifer raises an eyebrow. As if it's a cue, he and Michael step forward, and the doors from which a cold night breeze was blowing snap shut untouched. There's not a soul in the hall that doesn't jump at the sound.

"Please." Lucifer smirks at what Dean guesses are fearful faces. He knows that right now, he feels kind of like ice water has been poured down his back from some satanic pitcher. It's not very pleasant. "Like the priestesses and prophets are the only ones with a few tricks up their sleeves."

Michael raises his voice. "If you cooperate and stand down, all of you will leave here alive. You are the future leaders of our kingdoms, and we have no desire to harm you."

"But we will if we have to," adds Lucifer. His lips twitch up, and why the hell does he look so _amused_ by all of this? What the fuck is _wrong_ with him? "See, there's a little prophecy out there, made by a good man called Azazel—"

"'There comes a time when south and north/comes together as two from Earth/brothers and brothers, marked by fire/and but one will have their heart's desire—"

"Right, Mikey. 's about Sam and Dean. Needing to fight each other, probably to the death. And winner takes all. Including one of _our_ lives." He raises his eyebrows and throws his hands up in an obscene parody of fear. "How _scary_! Anyway, we intend to see that happen. Got it? No one leaves this place until two Winchesters have fought each other."

It's very silent. Someone coughs. One of the string-quarteters thumbs his instrument, and it echoes with an inappropriate, out-of-tune loudness.

"I won't let you," Castiel says suddenly. His eyes are blue and clearly reflecting his disdain for his higher-ups, in the place where polite submissiveness might once have been. His shoulders are set strong. "I will fight you to the death _myself_ if I have to."

Again, it's very quiet, and then Lucifer laughs. Michael doesn't; he just looks furious and like he's a moment away from socking Cas, but the king of Hell apparently thinks this is right up there with the best shows that the traveling minstrels put up. "Oh, he's a comedian? I like this one."

"I don't joke." Castiel lets go of Dean's hand, turns his arm ever so slightly, and suddenly he's holding something sharp-looking and shiny. It takes Dean a moment to realize it's one of the Heaven-made swords, the one he's shown himself to be adept with time and time again in Caleb's class. "If you force me to, brother, I _will_ fight you. Without reservation."

Lucifer is still laughing as he raises his hand and _twists_ , and then Castiel goes flying back, slams hard into the stone wall. He slumps forward, not moving, and the sword falls from his limp hand. Dean's world turns red, Sam yells, "Cas!" and Michael looks completely impassive even though that's his _brother_ lying on the floor and not moving, with a trickle of blood flowing from his nose—

He throws himself at Lucifer; Sam reaches out to grab him, hold him back, but he doesn't manage in time. "You bastard! If he's hurt, I'll fucking _kill_ you—"

Lucifer shoves him off with one of his mind-pushes, one considerably softer than what he used against Cas. He's not laughing anymore. "Dean. Fight your brother and I'll fix Cas right up. Might not even be any permanent danger," he adds.

"No." Flat out. Easy. Dean doesn't think about it, and part of himself hates him for that, the way that he so easily makes the choice—but his brother is his to protect. He made that promise when he was young and promises still meant something, and he'll be damned if he breaks it now.

"We'll start killing them." Michael nods at the onlookers. "If you force us to that. You _will_ fight. Whatever we need do to make that happen, we will do it. There is no life in here more valuable than seeing the prophecy properly fulfilled."

Quiet. Total quiet. Dean glances at Castiel's deathly pale form, and at Sam, who meets his eyes. Then, like a signal was given, they both turn very slowly and look at all the people that they've spent the past month with, plus the entire class of Harvelle's. Dean spies Sam's Jess in one corner; he can't tell what she's thinking or even make out her expression at all from the distance. He sees Bobby, standing tall in the center. Andy, a foot or two away from Raphael, who was wrestling with him not ten minutes ago. The other teachers like Caleb, Rufus, who've done their best to prepare him for a future he never intended to have.

If he has to choose, he'll choose Sam. That he knows with utter certainty. But at what cost? Who's going to have to die before they can walk? And what of Cas, who might just be knocked out, but who could currently be _dead_ a matter of feet away from him? What's he supposed to do?

Dean thinks he's going to spend the rest of his life standing like this, caught on the brink of unquestionable loyalty to his brother and uncertainty as to what the consequences of that will be. He thinks that nothing else can happen, nothing can move him—

At least, he thinks that until a small voice from seemingly far away calls out, "Like fuck we're gonna stand for that!" and before he knows it, Andy is turning around and decking Raphael on the nose. Raphael stumbles back, swearing—

And suddenly, just like that, everyone's fighting. This time it's easier divided, and Dean realizes that his friends, the people who weren't all that bad to him this year—Ash, Andy, the Ghostfacers—are fighting against those who are most loyal to Heaven and Hell. The Harvelle students too seem to have caught on to the unwritten divide; he sees Jess fighting one of the Heaveners he knew to be a loyalist—

He turns to Sam and leans in so that Michael and Lucifer can't here, which probably won't be much of a problem, because he thinks that's Caleb and Rufus and Bobby and Victor coming up right now like pissed off fathers who have just seen their kids get shoved down at the park. "Get in there, okay? Fight. Disguise yourself. But _don't_. _Fight_. _Me_."

Sam nods. "Of course."

He runs into the fray, and Dean loses sight of him right as Bobby throws the first punch at Michael. He smiles. Sam'll do well for himself. And maybe it'll be long enough for Michael and Lucifer go down, because come on, four to two? Bad odds, even if one of them _can_ toss people like sacks of potatoes. And Dean is going to go over and fight them too, he is. Just as soon as he makes sure Cas is coherent.

With that knowledge warm in his heart, Dean ducks out of the way of the teachers converging on the kings and moves as quickly as he can to get to Castiel's side. "Cas?"

Castiel's mind feels like someone has taken his usual clear reasoning and stirred some sort of paint into it, hazing it up. Making it into a dark, swirled mess. And also making him really dizzy, which is a _highly_ unpleasant sensation.

"Cas?"

Dean? With effort, Castiel furrows his brow and _focuses_. He tries to clear out his head through sheer will, and it somewhat works. Not really, because he knows that head trauma doesn't quite work like that, even in his muddled state. But he gets clear enough so that he can flex his fist, try to push himself up into a sitting position.

He fails, and would crash completely back onto the hard stone floor, were it not for Dean, who grabs hold of his shoulders and helps him up. "Hey. Focus. Open your eyes, Cas. Let me see your pupils."

Castiel complies, because it's Dean asking and he doesn't think he's entirely capable of refusing Dean _anything_. He does regret it, though, when he's assaulted by torchlight and the sight of two Harvelle's students punching each other about a foot away from his head.

"Keep 'em open. Come on."

Castiel frowns and makes the effort. Manages to focus on Dean's face. Which, granted, is one of the more pleasant things to be looking at.

"You're not dilated," Dean says, sounding relieved. "Do you feel dizzy?"

"A bit," Castiel says. The words come out easier than he thought they would, and he thanks his Father for small miracles. "I think that's more the effect of being thrown, though. Not a head injury."

Dean nods. He's balancing on the tips of his toes, biting his lip and looking really, really concerned. He reaches out a hand a feels Castiel's forehead, of all things—it's weird and a bit bizarre of a thing for Dean to be doing, but the touch feels nice, so Cas lets him. "Sam?"

"He's fine. In the fray. I doubt Michael or Lucifer'll be able to catch him there, and he can hold his own. He'll be fine." Dean nods down the hall, and Castiel observes with surprisingly little surprise that there's not one person here who is just standing around peacefully. No, civilization seems to have fallen apart. Students fight student; Heaven versus Hell versus Hell versus Earth…loyalties are gone. Even the members of the terrible string quartet are yelling at each other; zigging and zagging their bows to produce an effect that's akin to the caterwauling of a cat in heat. There are no serious injuries, not that Cas can see, but that could change.

"Dean. We have to stop this." Castiel rubs at his eyes, blinks again, and forces himself to have a clear head. There's a throbbing at the base of his skull that almost certainly testifies to a bruise, and although he doesn't think his nose is quite broken, it most definitely _is_ bleeding. But that's hardly the worst of the wounds that could come up if Michael and Lucifer don't act now, don't call an end to this madness. They're humoring the teachers who are sparring with them now, but oh, that could change _very_ quickly. "Is there anything you and Sam can do? Anything at all?"

"I don't think so." Dean sits back on his heels. His hand is wrapped solidly around the hilt of Castiel's sword. "Cas, even if I went up to Sam and punched him, and then he punched me and we tried to pass that off as fighting, they wouldn't buy it. They want one of us dead, you heard them."

There's a sudden sharp _crack_ as a body hits the floor; Dean whips away from Castiel to look. Cas doesn't need to move. Caleb, the loyal sword-fighting instructor, is lying on the ground. Threw a punch that landed too close to Lucifer, perhaps, and made the King of Hell decided to drop the front of caring about whether or not anyone else lives. And Lucifer looks completely unmoved by the fact that he just possibly _killed_ someone. If anything, Caleb's still body makes him look mildly amused.

"Fuck," Dean says. His hand tightens around the sword. "I can't fight Sam, Cas. I _can't_."

"I understand."

"But Mike or Lucifer? I can do that."

"What?" Castiel jerks forward, grabs Dean's wrist. "You can't. Dean, they'll slay you!"

"No they won't. They need me to fulfill the prophecy, remember?" Dean shakes his head, glances back down the hall. The fighting hasn't stopped; no one seems to have noticed how Caleb lies, unconscious if not dead. "Things are just gonna get worse, and we both know that they're not going to let anyone out until two Winchesters have fought. Heaven and Hell and Earth and all their future leaders are just gonna _kill themselves_ in here if I don't do something. I can't sit by and let that happen. I _can't_."

Castiel drops Dean's arm so that he can push himself to his feet, bracing off against the wall. His vision briefly gives way to a gray haze, but then is kind enough to shape itself back into reality. Dean follows him onto his feet, looking wary. "Dean. I didn't rebel from Heaven and doom myself to a life on the road forever for _this_. I didn't walk away from my higher-ups and Balthazar and whatever old life I had to watch you kill yourself."

"I just _told_ you, it's not gonna—"

"That's beside the point, and you know it. Give me the sword, Dean. _I_ will do it."

"Like fuck you will." Dean glares at him, his jaw set hard. "You might not be concussed, but you're pretty damn shaken. You're staying here and not getting yourself killed."

"I'm stronger than you," Castiel replies. And it's true—Dean and Sam are good fighters; very good ones, even. He won't discredit them of that. But, to be entirely blunt, Castiel is better. And he knows that he is.

"Not like this you're not." Dean turns away, done with the discussion, and Castiel automatically grabs arm, forces him to turn. He sets his jaw, summons up all of the strength that he has.

"You. Are. Not. Fighting. Michael and Lucifer. By. Yourself."

"What, are you gonna come? There's only one sword, and it's in my hands." Dean raises an eyebrow and shrugs off his hand. "You can't stop me."

Castiel punches him in the jaw.

Dean reels back, dropping the sword. Castiel snatches it out of the air, not giving it time to clatter against the ground. He doesn't think about what he just did as he strides forward, ready to die so that Dean doesn't have to be injured. Because Michael and Lucifer, they're ruthless and they're senseless. They'll _hurt_ Dean, even if they don't off him.

"Don't you even _think_ about it," Dean snarls from somewhere behind him. Castiel is close to Michael and Lucifer now, and he doesn't bother turning around. He just strides forward, past Professor Victor Henricksen who is clutching his stomach and spitting something vile whilst glaring ferociously at Lucifer; past Bobby Singer, who is cautiously circling an irate Michael. He goes straight by Rufus Turner, who holds a short knife not too different from his own sword. He ignores them all, focusing only on his brothers.

Castiel slows his steps until he's about a foot away from his brothers. They both meet his gaze head on. Lucifer raises his eyebrows. "Have to admit, it's kinda cute to see a guy go out of his way to defend his boyfriend's honor. Makes you think that chivalry isn't quite dead."

"Stand down, Castiel," Michael snarls at him. "Drop the sword _now_ , and your punishment will _not_ be as severe. Renounce your foolish decisions, your… _relationship_ with my heir, and I will go lightly on you, brother."

"I don't think I can do that," Castiel replies calmly. His hand is very sweaty, and he's kind of worried that the sword is just going to slip out of his slick palm. "You _must_ stop this. Let us out. Let Sam and Dean go, and I'll gladly do whatever you ask of me."

"Cas, shut the fuck up." And then Dean is standing next to him, palpable waves of fury rolling off of him like a bad stench. Castiel closes his eyes, damning Dean's stupidity. "What is it about Heaven that breeds assholes? Does it, like, run in the family or something?"

"I bet you know an awful lot about Castiel's—I'm sorry, that's just _too_ easy," Lucifer says, somehow keeping a straight face. "Really, I think it's sweet. Young love and all that. So _innocent_." He shakes his head.

"Innocent?" Dean stalks forward until he's nose to nose with the King of Hell. Castiel lays a warning hand on his shoulder; Dean shrugs it off like it's a hot poker. "Fuck _innocence._ I think I lost mine when you decided to kidnap my brother when I was _eight_ , you assfuck. I think I lost it when you tore apart my family for the sake of your fucking _prophecy_."

"I raised you better than that, Dean," Michael begins, chastising, but he doesn't get a chance to finish because Dean spins around and slams his fist into his nose. Michael _snarls_ , blood drips down his face, and he raises his hand threateningly. "How _dare_ you!"

"Don't touch him," Castiel warns, stepping forward. The sword is out and ready in his hand—

"Castiel, I'm afraid I can't let you do that." And then he's flying backwards _again_ (and really, how exactly is it that he's gone his entire life without being magically thrown backwards, and now it's happening twice in a day?) and landing on his shoulder, and oh, oh _fuck_ , that hurts—

"You fucking bastard!" Dean is snarling from somewhere above and behind him, "If he's hurt I'll fucking _kill_ you, and you better _bet_ that I'll enjoy doing it!"—

And that godawful string quartet is _still_ playing—

And then the doors swing open, knocking both Michael and Lucifer down onto the floor, and a wind is coursing in, and suddenly everyone is still. And Castiel thinks that there's some deeper significance to all this, but he's not entirely sure what, because his arm is throbbing like hell, and all he really wants is an ice-pack.

  


  
Sam has just finished fighting some kid whose name he doesn't know when the door swings open. Michael and Lucifer give twin yelps of pain, and Dean's voice—which wound frighteningly above the fray a few moments ago—falls quiet. Most of the voices do, actually, Sam's included. He can't explain why, because it's certainly not so that he can stand still and savor the early spring breeze which is causing all the torches to dance and flicker about. Although that's kind of what he's doing right now.

Michael, to no surprise, breaks the silence. "I thought you had bound the doors," he snaps at Lucifer. He sounds every bit the arrogant dick that Dean always described him as.

Lucifer's answer is as blithe as always. "I did. Not sure what happened, unless Sam and Dean have suddenly started to telepathically mind-wrestle." He snorts to himself. Sam hates him.

"I think we all know that's not what occurred," Michael growls. "Samuel? Dean? What have you done?"

"I haven't killed you yet, but I will if I have to," Sam hears Dean say. Which apparently isn't what they were looking for, because all of a sudden all eyes are on him.

He glances at Dean for strength, at Castiel, who's pushed himself up into a sitting position despite the intense grimace he's got on. "I didn't do anything," he says, raising his hands. "I swear. I was just fighting…"

Sam turns, glances around until he finds the kid that he was just fighting. Tallish, sandy hair. Nondescript. Sam has the vague idea that he had most of his classes with him, but he's not sure what his name is. "…him!"

"And who is 'him?'" asks Michael. He strides down the length of the hall, the only one moving. Well except for Dean, who slips over to kneel down beside Castiel, although his eyes never leave Sam. "Son. State your name and patronage."

The guy who was just trying to pummel Sam with all his strength, and who had a burgeoning black eye to show for it, clears his throat. "Adam Milligan, your Heavenly Highness. Of Earth."

"Adam?" Dean asks, and although it's probably supposed to be said softly and privately to Cas, it, uh, it kind of carries. "Who the fuck is Adam?"

Which is kind of callous. But Sam has to admit that he's wondering that too. Adam is the sort of guy who just kind of slips away from you; you would have to make a conscious effort to remember him in order to be aware of his existence.

"My mother was a woman named Kate Milligan. She was one of the lower princesses of a small kingdom on Earth, called…"

Sam tries to listen. He really does. But Adam's words all just sort of fade to an incoherent buzzing not unlike that of the string quartet. It's only when a familiar name comes up that he's able to focus again.

"…my mom told me that I was conceived by a traveler passing through. A man named John Winchester. But he never claimed me as his, so I don't know how true that is." Adam coughs politely, finished with his story. "Your Highness."

It's very quiet as everyone contemplates this. Sam turns over the information in his head. So…he has another brother? Or, well, half-brother. Conceived while his dad was on a quest for revenge against Azazel, the one that he went on before Lucifer and Michael had taken him and Dean. Sam's heard that story often enough from Lucifer, about how damn dedicated and determined his father was when it came to hunting down the man who'd made the prophecy that led (supposedly) to Mary's death. He never mentioned another brother.

And then something else occurs to Sam, something which probably should have come to him first. "Wait a minute. So… doesn't that mean that I just fulfilled the prophecy?"

  


  
Sam's words echo through the hall. Dean takes them in, frowns, thinks.

_Did Sam just fulfill the prophecy?_

He looks at Cas. Cas looks back, and nods. "I believe it does."

"No, of course it doesn't!" Michael snaps. He's pacing back and forth, his face a furious red. Lucifer, on the other hand, is leaning against the open door. His hair is being mussed up from the wind coming in, and he looks annoyed. "It had to be between Sam and Dean. And one of them has to be _dead_."

"And where did it say that?" Dean asks. He rises to his feet, still staying near Castiel. "It said that two brothers from Earth were marked by fire. It said only one could have their heart's desire, and yeah, I can get why that could be interpreted as 'they need to fight.' But where did it say anything about death?"

"It didn't," Sam calls from the other end of the hallway. "It didn't say _anything_ about death, did it, Lucifer?"

Lucifer glances up from where he was carefully examining his fingernails. "Not _technically_."

"Exactly!" Sam grins triumphantly.

"But Adam wasn't marked by fire! And he wasn't split between Heaven and Hell. It doesn't work at all." Michael glares at Adam, and Dean feels something for the guy. Who is technically his brother, even if Dean never really noticed him before. Despite the classes they had together, and all that.

"Actually, I was," Adam volunteers timidly. He lifts up his sleeve, showing a red scar that stretches from his shoulder to his elbow. "I got burned when I was, like, three. And my mom had a mom from Hell and a dad who was a renegade from Heaven, so. I don't know much about the prophecy, but I kinda am split between them."

"Shut up!" Michael is spitting now, his face the color of a ripe tomato. Dean wouldn't be surprised if steam were coming out of his ears, or if fire started pouring from his fingers. Lucifer, on the other hand, just looks mildly amused. "It can't be like that! The battle between Heaven and Hell must culminate! We must crush Lucifer and his dissenters into the ground!"

"But I won the fight," Sam retorts, "and that's not my heart's desire. I want to leave. I want me and Dean and Cas to get on our horses and ride out of here, and I want us to be able to make our own destinies. Oh, and I want everyone in here to be allowed to leave safely, okay?"

Michael is very definitely about to protest that, but Sam has turned and it walking away, walking up the long space from where he was to where Dean is, and he's not paying any attention to what some humiliated king of Heaven has to say.

Once Sam is standing next to Dean and Castiel, he looks out over their silent audience. "Jess, I'm sorry things didn't work out," he calls. "Maybe…maybe later? Once everything settles down?"

From somewhere in back, a voice calls, "It's okay, Sam. I get it… and maybe. I don't know, but I'm not going to forget you any time soon."

"Good enough," he answers, grinning. "And Adam, sorry we didn't know about you. Hope things work out for you."

Adam probably says something in response. Dean doesn't pay much attention.

Sam calls out one last goodbye, this one directed at Andy, who calls out with instructions for Sam to 'stay awesome.' Once all that's done, Sam turns to him and Castiel, who's on his feet again, although he's still holding his shoulder tenderly. "You guys ready?"

"I am." Dean glances at Castiel. "You?"

"More than ready."

They walk to the door, every eye on their back. From somewhere, Michael yells shrilly, "You can't just let them walk away! It's not _allowed_!" and Bobby answers, "Like fuck you're telling me how to run my school! Far as I'm concerned, you just attacked a bunch of innocents, you and your brother. That's grounds for interkingdom arrest."

Dean is sorely tempted to turn around and see what, exactly, comes out of that. But he doesn't, because he wants to walk away from this mess, and turning around would just pull him way back in.

Lucifer is still near the doors, but now he's straightening up. Probably going to try to run. Dean hopes the bastard doesn't get very far. "Dean. Sam. _Very_ well played. And Castiel, you've quite the backbone, for one raised in Heaven."

"If you come near us again," Dean says, not bothering to look at him, "I'll kill you. I will." He's never killed someone before, and right now, he's on the downward rush of his adrenaline spiral. Not to mention that his younger brother is standing right next to him, and his, um, boyfriend isn't exactly in the shape needed for being a witness to a crime that could launch a war.

But if he ever meets Lucifer again at night in a dark, deserted lane? Only one of them's gonna be walking away. And Dean is confident that it _will_ be him.

Lucifer just laughs, and then he's not there anymore, no matter where Dean looks. Like he just became part of the night. Or maybe he just magicked himself out of there.

"He does that," Sam says tiredly. "Don't worry about it. Come on, let's get to the barn."

The barn is well-lit, the stable boys from Singer's and Harvelle's engaging in mildly drunken revelries. They ignore Sam and Dean and Cas; in turn, they are ignored.

The three of them tack up their mounts in relative silence. Or, well, Sam and Dean outfit Charger and Impala; Castiel just kind of sits next to their bags and hold his arm carefully, looking rather sore. Dean resists the urge to lean over and kiss him.

When the horses are suited up, saddle bags and all, and they're each wearing the bags that they packed, they're ready. It feels so _small_ , so far from momentous, that Dean expects something to happen. Lucifer to pop in and stab him, Castiel back out at the last moment and say that no, he doesn't care at all for Dean, and would _much_ rather be living back in Heaven with Balthazar (which, okay, maybe Dean has been worrying about. A little).

But…it doesn't. As they lead the horses out of the barn, past a bunch of drunken stable-workers who are apparently really bad at their job, seeing as they don't see anything wrong with three students taking two horses outside at midnight, the only unplanned variable is that Bobby is standing out there. He's got a bit of a black eye, but all in all, looks pretty damn good for a guy who just faced down two of the most dangerous men in all the world.

"Michael's being locked up now," he tells them by way of greeting. "In the dungeons. He acted against me on my property, means I got a right to defend myself." He shrugs. "God only knows who's gonna be leading Heaven now. Or Hell, for that matter. Lord knows Lucifer isn't gonna be showing his face in public after what he did here. All Heaven and half of Earth'll be on his ass. . Could be there's a council called between kingdoms—that hasn't happened in a long time. We live in interesting times, boys."

"No shit," Dean agrees. "No idea about Heaven or Hell? Their leaders, I mean?"

"Not really. Could be Raphael and Crowley—they took flight, the both of them, before we could get them under lock. But who knows if they'll be accepted. As it is, I bet one of you could jump in and take over right now, if you were pining for a king position." Bobby laughs, although there a kinda fake quality to it that makes Dean wonder how serious he is. "But in case you don't…here."

He thrusts something into Dean's hands. A book, one that Dean can feel to be loosely bound, and overflowing with extra sheets. "What's this?"

"Little something of your daddy's. He left it to me just before he killed Azazel. Said it should be yours one day, if I should ever happen to meet you." He shakes his head, something unreadable on his face. "It's his journal, 'bout what he was doing after you two were taken, during the couple of years it took him to track down Azazel's ass. And, well, a bit about what we did when we were young and stupid. Not something I'd have you know about, but if it's what your dad wanted…"

"Sure." Dean nods and tucks the book into the pack he's wearing. It's probably just nothing, probably stories of how his dad and Bobby got drunk at every tavern or inn across three kingdoms, but who knows? He'll look at it as some point. "Take care of yourself, Bobby."

"You too, boy." And then Bobby pulls him in for a gruff hug that's about as surprising as it is awkward. But Dean hugs him back out of respect, and out of thanks. Bobby's been pretty awesome over the year. Dean kinda wishes that they could take him with them, although he seems pretty attached to the school.

He hugs Sam next, muttering a few words of advice in his ears that Dean can't hear, and then turns to Cas. There's a pause, and then Bobby hugs him too. Dean doesn't think he's ever seen Castiel been hugged by someone who isn't him, when they're not in bed. And it's kind of awesome, the way Cas tenses up, frowns confusedly, and then stiffly lifts his one good arm to pat Bobby on the back.

They break apart. Dean resolves to see to it that Cas gets hugged by other people more often, since he really doesn't seem like he's used to it.

"Well, I guess that's that," Bobby says, stepping back. He looks at them, then at their horses. "You even gonna get on those things?"

"Right now, old man." Dean grins, strokes Impala's mane, and then swings himself up. Next to him, Sam mounts Dodger (stupid ugly asshole colt that he is), and Cas stands patiently next to Impala.

Dean reaches down. "Ready?"

"Of course." Castiel gives him his typical, half-done smile and extends his hand to meet Dean's. "I've been ready for a very long time."

He swings up behind Dean, only wincing a bit as he does. Impala dances under the weight, but she can take both of them. She's a strong and reliable old horse; there's no one else Dean would rather ride as he embarks on the journey of his lifetime. "G'bye, Bobby."

"Bye, boys." Bobby nods at them, and there really isn't much else to say, so Dean just gently taps Impala with his heels, and off she goes, Charger by her side. It's a beautiful night to be running away from destiny, cool and breezy, but clear as a sunny day. Except, well, less sunny and all of that.

They ride into the night, into the woodsy trails that surround Singer's. It feels like hours go on like this, quiet and peaceful, and just Sam and Dean and Castiel on their own, without the weight of some predetermined fate hanging above their heads. It's silent and perfect, just the way life changing moments should be.

  


  
They slow when the sun starts to come up. Dean glances around at Cas, and then they both look at Sam. A conference in gazes. And when that doesn't work out (mostly, Castiel assumes, due to his inability to understand body language) Dean speaks. "What should we do? Should we still go on to those safe houses Bobby told us about, or should we just, I don't know, keep on going?"

A momentary quiet; he and Sam ponder there choices. Then Sam says, "I say we keep going. Let's see where this road brings us." He pats Charger's neck. "Maybe we ride until the sun's all the way up? And that we stop for a break."

Dean nods. "Sounds good to me. Cas?"

Castiel leans in, brushes his lips over Dean's. His arm is throbbing, and his ass is intensely sore from having ridden for all these hours—but none of that matters. "I'll go wherever you go," he says, and Dean blushes red at that, but he's grinning too. The air has already begun to warm up, and the first bird of morning calls out from somewhere in the woods around them. There are no prophecies out here, no Dick Roman to be married to. There's just him and Dean and Sam, and their horses, and a few items necessary for survival. And as they begin to ride into the sunrise, a million and one possibilities stretching out around them, Castiel thinks that things are perfect as they are.


End file.
